


Lover Of My Impossible Soul

by shoulderbone (lavenderforluck)



Series: Pointing at the Moon [2]
Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist!Even, Bipolar Disorder, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Canon, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-05-08 09:45:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 66,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14691603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderforluck/pseuds/shoulderbone
Summary: We don't often reveal ourselves, when we don't actually know what there is to reveal yet. Or, alternatively: Isak returns to Oslo, and most importantly, to Even.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. so this is the sequel to Cathedrals of Light, Salt and Snow, starting about 6 months after the last piece takes place. I would recommend reading the first piece but you can do whatever you want truthfully. The title is taken from the song [Impossible Soul](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8R_3mXZBsuU) by Sufjan Stevens, which plays a small but integral role in this story. 
> 
> I have been exhaustively trying to understand and wrap my head around writing a character like Even. I felt that it was of the utmost importance that I do him justice. So naturally, it requires a small village: to @argentae for the immeasurable amount of editing and gentle cheer-leading, to @imminentinertia for many helpful oslo-picks, and to the ever lovely @Im_a_bird for such incredible insight and advice on Even's character & thought process. Thank you so much.
> 
> Given that this is Even, the references to art and music are more important than ever, mostly because I'd think they'd be important /to him/. So do listen to the songs and click the links to the art if you're wanting and able. There are several Easter eggs too, which are blatantly taken from their original authors: including Lana Del Rey, James Dean in A Rebel Without a Cause, Richard Siken, and good ole Kurt Vonnegut. I have long lists of artists, writers, poets, movies and music I researched and could be incorporated into the fabric of this universe, if I had more time to world-build. Alas. 
> 
> On a more critical side note, any written discussion of bipolar disorder in this story is not meant in anyway as medical/health advice. I am not a doctor. Secondly, I am not someone who deals with Bipolar disorder, so I do not want to offend or hurt anyone. My inbox is always open for improvements/comments/concerns. 
> 
> As always, I'm open to discussion about the events in this story and if there are any tags I missed. All mistakes are my own.

 

 

 

 

>  "...but it is indispensable, to know how to look at him in a certain way. This way of looking is first of all attentive. The soul empties itself of all its own contents in order to receive into itself the being it is looking at, just as he is, in all his truth.”
> 
> — Simone Weil, “Reflection on the Right Use of School Studies” from the  _Simone Weil Reader_ , p. 51

-

SCENE:  
A beautiful boy stands in the corner: his eyes are downcast. There is a red window behind him, and the cast off glow tinges his entire face pink, like the first consolation prize of morning. You want to paint him.

You take a picture in your brain, thinking: why must we fall in love,  
thinking: do I put my hands on you.

Stop. If your face is able to ask one question, what is it asking?

Think: how do I stop you from drowning in that red window,  
Think: why are your eyes downcast?  
Think: is it because you were looking at me?

CUT:  
The images Even captures in his head are never exactly how he experiences them. He’s trying to be better at becoming present, but it’s difficult when there are so many beautiful scenes to capture.

SCENE:  
A beautiful boy stands in the corner: his eyes down cast. A rosy hue tinges his cheeks, offset by the red window illuminated behind him. The music cuts; something dark, industrial. It makes the walls jitter, just slightly.

You walk to him. Say something along the lines of: nice party, right?

The boy looks up at you. This is the moment when the music turns: it matches perfectly with his lips parting. You can build an entire monument for those lips, you think. Many monuments.

CUT:  
You want to crawl inside his mouth. You want to eat all his words before they leave his lips. You want to be the word he sounds out, trying to figure out how to pronounce the vowel. The long E. The hard N.

SCENE:  
A beautiful boy stands in the corner. Behind him a red window, illuminated, swallowing him whole. He looks up at the last moment: catches your eye. You walk up to him. The music speeds up, rushing towards a climax. You can feel the exact moment that everything changes, like a dial spinning out of the control until it lands, clicking into place. The music stops when you lock eyes. His head tilts up, exposing his neck. The red continues to gleam, like a cherry ember, his skin a slaughterhouse -

  
-

TORSDAG 06:55  
  
Early morning is Even’s favorite, mostly because it is when the day sat in infancy, and he can exist in the first fumbling moments of quiet. There are no other times of the day when it is still like this.

He has a routine, because he is the type of person to have a routine, now: wake up at half six, shower. Make breakfast. Meditate. Sit and stare outside as the sun rises. Practice being still. Practice enjoying the sunrise, even though it can be banal. Pretend it doesn’t feel like a waste of time. Take the word ‘waste’ out of the sentence because it begets a sense of urgency, which is unneeded before seven in the morning.

Even breathes. Today is a new day, he tells himself, and then shares a small laugh, because, couldn’t it be that all days are replica efforts of the same day replayed a thousand ways, and we’re all cycling toward a spiral of inefficiency, of emptiness?

Okay, Even, he conjoles himself. Enough nihilism. At least no more before the first cup of coffee.

Right. Work. Even finishes his breathing. Counts backwards to fifteen, clears his head, even the thoughts around the red window, and tunes into what his body is doing. Sitting cross legged on the yoga mat - check. One hair tickling his cheek still: check. The steady intake of breath. Steady, steady now.

When he opens his eyes again, it’s time for work. The morning is miserable and overcast, but he thinks it may be perfect to try and capture later, if he can focus long enough to grasp it so he can rework his own vision later. Thinks of a title: Monday in Oslo, it would read, italicised, maybe Helvetica. Or maybe better, Times New Roman. Part of a gallery collection he would have, all black and white photos of Oslo. What would make it different, though?

One photo, of the boy in the red window, standing, his body made of light.

Okay, Even, he reminds himself. The walk to Tim Wendelboe takes fifteen minutes and it is mostly through Sofienbergparken and then past Grüner’s Gate. His favorite part of the walk is always the trees, regardless of the season, because even in the winter they appear like veins one would see on the inside of an organ, or maybe the underside of a leaf. Every time he sees them he thinks of lungs, removed from their bodies, and lit up inside. Thinks of what he could call them, these imaginary lungs, and why they need light.

It reminds him of his favorite [poem](http://www.fishousepoems.org/scheherazade/):

 _Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us._  
_These, our bodies, possessed by light._

Even closes his eyes at the corner when he stops, waiting for the light to change. Thinks to himself: the day is about to start, and you’re fixating.

It’s something he’s used before: when you open your eyes, you have to be present.

When he arrives at TW, the shop is already backlit, and he lets himself in, well aware he’s earlier than he needs to be for his shift. Only the delivery guy is there, shoving bags of beans onto the counter and a case of milk. Even shrugs off his bag in the employee area and finds his black apron. He folds it in half and ties it around his waist, and flips his hoodie off his head, his hair curling slightly around the sides of his beany.

It takes him several tries to dial in correctly. The beans loaded into one of the hoppers is their in-house blend Hunkunte, and it is unusual for the roast to be difficult, so when Even swigs back a taste and is rewarded with an over-extracted bitterness, he nearly gags in surprise. He tries to adjust the level of dial roast to see if its the coarseness, but that returns no better results. Then he fiddles with the dose, goes up to 19, then back down to 18.8 grams, but still, it tastes bitter. Even leans against the counter, considering. Outside, the morning has finally arrived, and with it, the first tricklings of people on the pavements. Even likes his early morning regulars: grocery shopping right as the shops open, walking their dogs, minding small children.

Adjusts the dose again to 18.4, lowers the grind for a finer ground. This way the espresso requires time to filter through it and it doesn’t over-extract. Swigs it again, just a taste: better. Less tangy, more sour, like it should be.

The shop is just about ready to open when the newest hire arrives. It’s 8:15, which is perfect, and makes Even’s disposition settle into something content, if not a little cheerful. This could be a nice morning, he thinks to himself, watching as two school-age children pass the shop, talking animatedly. There’s just something in the air.

While Tim rarely ever hires new people, at least in Even’s experience, Anna had left earlier that summer to travel to Australia as part of an international barista event for women. He turns his attention to the guy who just stepped in next to him at the bar, rubbing his hands with a towel after presumably washing them.

“Halla,” Even says, a small smile on his face. “You must be Amir.”

“Nice to meet you,” Amir nods, but offers nothing else for a moment. He shifts from one foot to the other. He reminds Even of Yousef in his bone structure, though his hair is far neater. Stylistically, Even can appreciate that Amir has his own look going on: his hair parted neatly and combed to one side, a checked button up tucked into a pair of gray slacks. The only part of him that seem dressed down are the high top Nikes on his feet. Even looks down at his own shoes, a pair of old black high tops he’s had since starting this job, and the only shoes he’s ever worn at TW.

  
“So, I’m assuming Tim has trained you on our basics?” Even says as he goes to unlock the front door. “And I’m also assuming he’s mainly put you on cashier today? Tove will be in at 12:00 and Tim should arrive in the afternoon at some point to check on our roast.”

“Cool,” Amir says, nodding. Looks around the shop, Even presumes, though he’s partly obscured by the espresso machine. He shuffles some bags of their Mugaga Kenya in order from oldest in the front to newest in the back. “And yes, he did let me know I’d be doing the till all day.”

“Sweet,” Even hums, “So, where did you come from before?”

Tove had already told him, because TW rarely ever have new hires, but Even has found that it never set the best vibe when you arrived at new job with all the staff already knowing everything about you. He would know.

Amir tells him, “Flugen,” he nods slowly. “I uh, was very close to becoming their assistant manager there, but - I don’t know, I wanted something different. So I applied here, talked to Tim. That’s basically it.”

“Nice,” he nods. “Flugen is great. Though I’ve mostly been for cocktails.”

“Is it true that none of the baristas drink anything but Tim’s once they start here?” It’s the first smile across Amir’s face, and Even thinks it suits him. He looks like he’d be a better fit for a modelling agency rather than a cafe, honestly, with how intensely his features are composed on his face. Even has a brief vision of photographing in black and white film: the line of his jaw, a sharp contrast to the negative space under his chin, the darkness of his inky black hair, folded symmetrically along his scalp.

He chuckles, considers his own coffee habits. “You know, I guess that is kind of true. But not for the reason you think.”

“Oh?” Amir raises an eyebrow.

“Well, you probably won’t be surprised when I tell you, ’cause you already know,” Even shrugs one shoulder. He comes to stand behind the bar and starts to prepare a double cortado for himself. “We are constantly tasting the espresso to make sure we’re dialed in correctly, so by the end of the day, nei - the week, coffee on your days off becomes less of an exciting prospect, I think.”

Finds his favorite espresso cup under the till, where it sits amongst old leaflets and receipt paper. It has a tiny chip on one side, and a small rose painted rudimentarily on the front. Runs the hopper, measures out a yield of 31 on his scale.

“True,” Amir nods. He watches Even steam his milk.

“Your texture is flawless,” Amir’s slightly sheepish voice, eyes peeking over the rim of Even’s pitcher. He holds the same look of glee on his face that Even did when he first started here.

“Well, milk and I go way back,” Even laughs. “It’s kind of my thing.”

Amir laughs, not sure if Even is fucking with him. Even does not aide him in solving it.

“Welcome, anyway. There’s only five of us so - we’ve all got our little quirks, but we’re all pretty chill ” Even swirls, wiggles, and pulls up; the final and necessary touch for him to start his day, his milk offering the most dainty of tulip art without fault -

Amir laughs, full smile on display, and for a moment, all sense of motion slows down, and Amir sounds tinny, his voice through a funnel, the sound so distant from Even. Suddenly he becomes a viewer to his own life, sitting at the back of the theatre reeling behind his eyes.“What’s yours?”

“What?” Everything snaps forward then. Even blinks at Amir. Amir blinsk back, confused.

“Your quirk?”

“Oh,” Even realises he’s nearly poured all of the milk, the tulip a sight of ruin. The coffee spills a little over his finger, and looks at the faded roses. It was from a flea market. “It’s not much. Just never use my cup. But I mean why would you want to? Look at it. I keep it separate. And I’m a little territorial about it.”

-

SCENE: A field of poppies, blood red blooms, against a silver threaded sky; purple, yellow, blue all amounting to a gradient dusk; settling. The poppies seem to float in the breeze, but one cannot tell even when they focus carefully, because there lies a larger sense of movement in the shot, an indiscernible feeling of time passing.

Then a voice over: _In between waking, and sleep, in between what is real and fragmented, there is a dream where the flowers never wilt._

-

FREDAG 18:00

“Halla?” Even calls into the apartment when he arrives home from work that evening. He hears the answering calls of both Mari and Hemi, but only Hemi is sitting in the living room. Her hair is pulled into two big buns on the top of her head, fingers hovering over her keypad. She looks up briefly at him in acknowledgement, then down again.

Even settles into reheating his leftover dinner from last night, crossing his arms against his chest.

“Hey, babe,” Mari comes out of the bathroom with a towel on her head, her face absent of any make up. She leans on the counter top, elbows splayed out in front of her. “How was work?”

“Well, there’s a new hire, and he’s quite interesting. Tove thinks he’s gay, but I’m certain that she’s generalising again, and he probably just has a sense of self. Typical. Tove doesn’t really have any credibility at this point, seeing as she’s constantly trying to suss everyone out before actually getting to know them.”

Mari only rolls her eyes. Even’s food starts to simmer, and he lowers the heat on it, stirring his teriyaki broccoli a couple of times. “Does he dress well?”

Even nods, giving her a knowing look with one brow raised. “She thinks every dude who has some modicum of style ‘is a homosexual,’” Even sighs. “I have told her that it’s unbecoming to be so superficial, but I don’t think she cares.”

“Oh, I’m shocked. Tove being rude? Never heard that before,” Mari snarks. “Oh, you know what? You’ve got some mail today.” She shuffles around the kitchen island where stacks of magazines and old school work often collect, passing an envelope over to him.

Her eyebrows are raised. “From a certain Isak Valtersen.”

Hemi looks up then. Even doesn’t look at either of them, even though both of them are watching him, waiting for a response. The corners of the envelope are a little rough around the edges, in a fitting way. Isak’s familiar print is neat and boxy where he’s written Even’s name.

Even tries to relay no reaction on his face, know the girls are waiting. “Interesting,” he says coolly, before dropping the letter on the counter near his jacket. He purposely does not look at it again. Instead, he drops the pot of leftovers into a bowl, sparing the girls both a look when they don’t say anything else.

“What?”

Mari shakes her head. “Nothing. I’m just wondering what he could want, again. This is like, the third letter in three months.”

Fifth, actually, but Even had been lucky enough to be able to intercept two of them before the girls ever saw and absconded with them to his room. He raises a brow, feigning nonchalance. “I think he just wants to have someone to write to.”

Hemi audibly sighs. Even rounds on her. Her face is drawn up in a pinched consternation, nose wrinkled like there is a bad smell under it. Like Isak is the bad smell. Even feels his gut twist in irritation. “Can’t he find someone else to write? I’m sure he has friends in Oslo.”

“It’s just that…” Mari spares a look at Hemi, and for a moment they have a silent debate. Even can almost hear it: _Do we pick this battle? Or do we leave it?_ Mari turns back to him. “It’s just that, I don’t see why he insists on writing you. Especially if you’re not returning any of his letters, right?”

“I already told you,” Even mutters, frowning. He stabs a piece of broccoli with more ferocity than is needed. “Anyway, the letters are harmless. Half the time I forget to read them until way later, if at all, anyway.”

“Yeah, okay, Even,” Hemi comments sarcastically.

Even withholds any reaction, his first inclination to diffuse any suspicion. He sighs, aiming for unconcerned. He eyes both of them with a shrug of his shoulders again. “It’s really not a big deal.”

The tension rolls out of Mari’s shoulder a bit. She fixes Even with another look, though her resolve is eroding slightly. “It’s not - we’re not trying to be like, your keepers or something. You know that. It’s just, with Isak, there’s like - so much, and it escalates so quickly - ”

Even shakes his head. “Look. Last time, Isak was here because his mother had passed away. I think we can stop bringing up how shit that was, because mainly, it was shit for him. Not me. He wasn’t doing anything to me.”

He takes a breath. He’s had this argument before. “And anyway, he is Berlin, may I remind you. So the point is moot. And you both can drop it any time you feel.”

“Wish he’d drop it,” Hemi mutters under her breath, and Even nearly flinches at her soft, scathing tone. He wants to yell at her. Wants to say: you have no idea what you’re talking about. You have no idea who you’re talking about. So if I were you, I’d watch your mouth.

But Even doesn’t. He is already beginning to de-escalate his own thoughts, his own defensive reaction because while it would be easy for him to take this to another level, make it into a full blown argument, where he could let them taste his backlash. Sometimes he feels like he’s on the edge of something drastic, and terrible, and great. He never acts on this feeling, no matter how often he is lured to its precipice.

Instead he withstands the comment with only an eye roll. Finds his facade of aloofness, and pulls it back on like an impassive white mask.

Mari gives him one last look, and he looks back with only a hint of the defiance he actually feels.

He knows it’s because they care. But he also knows they don’t understand.

It’s a stalemate if he’s ever seen one. His broccoli has gone cold.

-

Dear Even,

Wow. India is so far away. I think it was smart not to directly mention you were there; it would raise too many questions, wouldn't it? Sometimes I think you're too clever for your own good. It makes me nervous. . I’ve googled where it is approximate, how the hell did you even find a postbox? If I remember correctly it was just after you left Kashmir. 

This quote from Thomas Edison. Remember it? Remember who you were, when you wrote it? _I believe there is the existence of Supreme Intelligence pervading the Universe._

What I wonder about is that you wrote it in German, while you know my mother _spoke_ only Norwegian and some English. I mean of course she could easily have figured it out. But it's you. That's what I kept coming back to. It's you. So I couldn't help but wonder if you wrote it there as some kind of message to me. Hoping someday, in some way, I'd see it. I looked up Edison. Of course - and I was surprised to find he was a pretty outspoken atheist of his time. His big thing was the idea of a universal brain - no - he called it an intuition, at play here. I'm studying a lot of structuralists, and it reminds me almost of a universal 'institution' at work. A large multi-focal schema of operation here, spread throughout parallel dimensions, connecting and diverting at chaotic intervals left up to the randomness of the universe. But it makes me wonder.

Does there exist a universal truth for us? Does it exist like a latitude, splaying across every single parallel universe we may happen to exist in?

Perhaps somewhere, deep down, you knew a supreme intelligence intelligence may exist out there. Some kind of intuition as if things really do happen for a reason. It's comforting. Like we we're apart because that's how it's been ordained, and it wasn't for nothing, and I don't have to regret all this time we spent apart wasn't so terrible, wasn't for nothing. I spent two year agonising over the end of our relationship. Hating that I ran away and still too shit-scared to come back and try and fix it. Well, here we are. And when I read this postcard, I felt a relief. Like maybe you knew that I’d find my way back to you. Or maybe you at least had some faith the universe knew it for you.

Isak.

 

-

FREDAG 20:51

“Even?” it’s Hemi’s voice coming under the cracks of the door. “What are you doing? Can I come in?”

Even looks at the way the light from the window shines through the sheer curtain onto his duvet, casting a purple glow over the room. He’s been sitting at his desk for nearly an hour, looking through old playlists on his laptop, trying to compile his thoughts instead. They scatter around like fleas, bouncing off, irritating.

Underneath, a melancholic fury waits. Isak. Isak. Isak.

Even, a little upright voice says to him. You’re fixating.

Well, fuck it. He can’t find he cares much. Another beat. Hemi is waiting on the other side of the door. He knows the longer he keeps her waiting, the more restless she may become at his silence. Even the song playing feels like an irritant.

“Yeah, come in,” he says. Skips to a [new track](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEToU0ueDww&t=124s). Thinks: _god, yes, do you remember when you were nineteen, and couldn’t tell anyone -_

_I do. I do._

The door swings open and already Even knows where this will lead, because Hemi is wearing a fishnet top and black trousers, looking like a twenty first century Wednesday Addams, her buns replaced with long plaits. She raises an eyebrow at Even.

“What are you doing?” she says. She leans on the door frame, casual. He pauses his music finally.

“Just looking through my poorly organised music library and wondering if I should even bother to clean it,” he shrugs. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

She squints at him with thinly concealed suspicion. “Are you annoyed at us? About what we said.”

Even lets out a sigh he didn’t realise he was holding. He stares down at this keyboard for a moment, thinking of what he could say. For a moment, he stares at the wood like he could see the letter sitting in his drawer; like it could become animate and burst from his desk. Papers would fly out, along with pens and several miscellaneous knick knacks, perhaps a paperclip hitting Even in the face for comedic effect. The letter would fly over to Hemi like it was being pulled on a line, and she’d catch it with stunning accuracy, read it, and go: _A ha! So you have been lying to us._

Another pause. Hemi stares at him imploringly, waiting for an answer. “Even?” she sighs too. “Christ, it’s like you’re on another planet today. Look, I’m sorry if I was being rude.”

“It’s fine,” he returns tightly. Doesn’t look at Hemi yet. “I’m just a little sensitive about it all.”

She blows upwards at her fringe. “Yeah, talk about an understatement.”

“Now you are being rude,” Even frowns. Then he rolls his eyes too, trying to be more exasperated and less downtrodden. “Ugh. Let’s stop this. Are you going out?”

“How did you guess?” she grins a little, still unsure.

“Well, seeing as you never wear anything black, there must be some kind of special occasion,” he teases. Hemi owns little else than black and dark green.

She gives a small curtsy, and then laughs when her leather trousers squeak slightly. Even shares this giggle with her for the sake of their friendship: never leave Hemi hanging in the silence, especially when she breaks into a smile. They’re almost like red herrings.

“Okay, I promise I’m done being a bitch for the day,” she surrenders, and then he smiles for real, appreciates when Hemi is willing to appease his sensitivity. She clenches her fists at her sides and jumps up and down for a beat. “Will you please come out dancing? I know you don’t have to work tonight, so that means we can dance as much as want.”

Oh. He sighs, waiting to be convinced. A part of him just wants to sit in his room until morning writing Isak back, thinking of his own response. What will it look like? He thinks about how he could form it.

He already knows how it would sound: a [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=psIPQMgThFg) playing softly, one they listened to when Isak sat on his bed, curled impossibly small and roguish, staring up at him as early morning dull light had filtered across his face.

Even thinks of that memory. How Isak blinked back tears like film on a shutter speed, and then reached out to touch him, marvelling, unused to feeling Even’s face again. How he traced his fingers across Even’s brow bone as they sat knee to knee. Isak had a way of expressing reverence without being aware he was doing it.

He knows what it would look like when he writes him back: the room would be impossibly still except for Even playing that song and thinking about that night before he left again. Perhaps he’d start with a poem. Perhaps he’d create the perfect rendering. His wishes there was more time, but he’s impatient, equally, to send it out and release it from his possession. Even wants to build a monument composed entirely of images, slightly out of focus, hyper exposed, only glimpses of Isak.

He shakes the idea out of his head. Knows where it leads, this intense burst of creative energy wrapped up in Isak resulted in few things other than a sliding slope towards mania, and Christ, how sweet it induces him into its grasp. How alluring it is to feel creative and loving and obsessed with something again. Yet Even feels his decision before he thinks it: no.

He argues with himself: let the letter sit. Or, sit in the letter. That way it will saturate into all seven layers of skin; sink into his muscle, the sinewly tissues, cartilage. It will enter every single bone until Even knows it, can sing it by heart. Sit in the letter, Even. Think of Isak writing it, grid paper slipped under his books and his laptop, his teeth catching his bottom lip as he wrote. He imagines it to be quick and without much filter, as some of the sentences trail off: like Isak was in a hurry to say, look at all this, look at all this hope - and Even inspired that. He inspired - something like hope in Isak, a feeling he could barely contain on paper.

He lets out a heavy exhale. Turns to Hemi, and responding to her expectant gaze.

“Okay,” he agrees, smiling. It feels a little exhaustive, going out when he wants to stay rooted here, deep in his thoughts. But he knows that doesn’t help him, that he needs not to dwell too long and too hard, lest he slips down that hill again. It’s a steep one to claw back up.

Enough fixating for today, he tells himself.

“I’ve got to change, smoke a joint, then we can go,” Even allows. Hemi smiles in this restrained, secretive way of hers, like she can’t bear to be sweet, but the sweetness seeps out of her anyway. Even knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that - and this is how his thoughts constantly swing back around to Isak.

“Yaaaaay. I’m going to pregame first anyway. Take your time, it’s not late yet.”

“Perfect,” he calls after her. The room is still again, and he sits in his letter and thinks of Isak’s cupid’s bow and how it pulls down to a point of perfect, equidistant symmetry from both peaks of his lips. It’s like they’re the climax points of two identical mountains, drawn up and plush; Isak’s mouth was always the most sinister, alluring, holy, drastic thing about him. That mouth spoke Even’s name like each letter was laid out in matches and lit on fire.

Even pulls the letter out of the drawer. He presses his fingers into the paper so as to remember the imprints on the page. Isak always put so much pressure behind his pen that his fingers would turn a worrying shade of red. He pauses over Isak’s choice of the use “spoke.”

'What I wonder about is that you wrote it in German, while you know my mother _spoke_ only Norwegian and some English.' Spoke is written like an afterthought, the end of the word coming apart sloppily like it could have been _speaks_ at first. But perhaps Even is imagining things. He can’t attest to what it is like to adjust to referring to someone in the past tense after someone passes away. He imagines it’s not a nice transition. A surge of sympathy fills him.

Even thinks of Isak’s mouth when he first saw him the night he was working at Fri Sjel; the way his lips were puckered in comparison to the sharp contrast of his cheekbones, every single taut line of his jaw threatening to slice Even wide open. He was thinner than Even was used to. He remembers thinking he’d never seen him so small. He had a confusing quality of appearing both alluring and shrunken.

Even can picture it distinctly: they locked eyes, Isak suspended below him, perched on that cinder block. His discomfort was palpable, and Even could taste it, unpleasant, like soured oranges. Remembers feeling suspended that moment, like some kind of twisted Hitchcockian interlude where he’s James Stewart and everything is spiralling in flashes of green and red. He wanted to shake himself out of it, but couldn’t seem to find an anchor. Come back, he remembers the urge to say, because it wasn’t something he felt the need to say since they’d had last seen each other. Come back from wherever you are.

It struck the fear of God in him: are you still the person I know? Where have you gone? Even hadn’t known exactly, what to say, only that he was terrified of what Isak might do, because what was worse? That he could be affronted? Or too shy to even acknowledge him? Or worst of all, that he would run away in cowardice, or resentment? He had appeared back in Even’s life like a goddamn apparition - his history one day, and his present the next, without so much as a warning. And Even was greedy, wanted to clutch at him, worried he would seep through his hands, his texture no heavier than smoke.

Of course, Isak was so withdrawn into his own body that it took a moment of wading in deeply unknown territory for Even to find a read on him. And then he learned about his mother, and his only thought was this: oh, no. Oh, no.

Goddammit, Even. He chastises. Exasperated. Still you must go over this. Still you must agonise.

A part of him knows he can’t help it; fixating is as normal to him as breathing. And he saw Isak in January, and he’s spent the last six months - no - five months, and two weeks - taking methodical precision to understand what occurred in those four days. Isak and his new freckles, the pointed peachy-parts of his mouth, wanton, open for Even, saying, _do you still?_

Even welcomes the agony. It is as beautiful as breathing. Part of life.

He changes into dark trousers and a patterned button up, the shadow of his collarbone catching the light as he stands in front of the mirror. He appreciates summer, where the air smelt sweet with lurid heat, the leftover sun languishing the west side of every building, slinking out like the last patron at the bar. He sits on floor by his bed and rolls a joint and feels a pleasant heat in his chest. Stares at his socked feet, and remembers a time when he would roll his toes over Isak’s for a moment, the smallest of reminders. _Hei_. They were always doing things like that. Thinks of the first time he did it in the Kollektiv kitchen, and the only sound he can remember now is the catch of Isak’s laboured breathing. Even had looked at Isak’s mouth. Isak had looked at Even’s. And then -

He goes to join the girls on the balcony. Hemi is drinking, and Mari is sat beside her with her hair braided and a bottle of nail varnish perched by her feet. There is something about girlhood that he doesn’t truly understand in an empathetic way, but likes immensely: the soft cadence of their voices, the pattern of laughter, high and then low and then high again. The way Hemi became affectionate and earnest once she started laughing and drinking, eager to curl up between their competing attentions. The way Mari would paint her nails with immaculate precision, only to become impatient half way through and fuck one of them up.

Even starts to smoke. Pictures what they must look like right now: Oslo, the sky a fickle pink, with no signs of slowing its display of flush opulence. Two girls sit in polar opposite representations of a ying-and-yang: Mari, sunny and yellowed, her entire aura a confident display of languor and long legs. Opposite her: Hemi, dark haired and tightly angled, mostly elbows, knees, and mouth drawn on in a flat line, only bursts of delighted laughter permitting. And then there’s Even: crouched, smoking, his face too serious for the moment.

He imagines a critic, staring and rubbing his chin: Well, it’s clear the artist is trying to evoke a call to [Miro’s The Hunter](https://www.moma.org/learn/moma_learning/joan-miro-the-hunter-catalan-landscape-montroig-july-1923-winter-1924-2), but drawing upon a clear 90’s aesthetic, or as I’d like to call it: young DiCaprio doused in floral meets early surrealism. Then another critic would disagree: he’s clearly trying to draw correlations between the usage of pink and the presence of girlhood. At least he’s consistent with shirt. Matches the colour of the sky. Perhaps a little trite.

As beautiful a shot it would make, in his spectating Even can feel his detachment from the moment. He tries to focus. Thinks of a [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CQsUNvYBch0) that would fit the moment, finds his phone next to him, and puts it on.

Hemi breaks from whatever she’s saying to Mari to smile at him, a private smile, like he’s finally just arrived. She taps her cigarette on the little ashtray, a petite turquoise ceramic pot Mari had bought in Greece last Autumn. Living with the girls means effervescence and capriciousness, a never ending range of conversations or debates or discussions. They flit through modes of serious and humorous and creative and inspired and annoyed, in a similar fashion that Even does when he’s thinking.

Consider it: it’s three am on a Tuesday last October. He’d found Mari, deep in debate about whether or not she thinks western feminism understands its own position and privilege. There are dozens of these instances. Or other times she can’t decide whether she’s more a Monica, Rachel, or Phoebe so they have to take three internet quizzes to confirm it (definitely a Monica. Apparently Even is ‘definitely a Phoebe’). When she left Bergen, she always told him she left the person she was used to being, and it wasn’t always easy figuring out exactly who she was now. But who she was made her unhappy before. Life's too short to be whatever is expected, she said. It’s better to be surprised.

“If I was a piece of art, what would I be?” she had asked Even their first day of orientation at UiO. He told her she was straight out of a [Hope Gangloff](https://hope-gangloff.com/new-gallery/5pat3timec8vtvidsb7ujyg2pav3o0) portrait, and she said she’d never met a guy who had been able to name a single female artist. He told her most ‘artisté’ men knew Frida Kahlo, but only because she had a uni brow and usually not even by name. For a moment she had held his gaze, searching, and then like a switch, nodded assent. They’d become friends almost instantly.

He snaps out of his reverie. Thinks: okay, you’ve had your moment, now it’s time to slip inside your life again.

“...and then he just, shoves his tongue in my mouth in the middle of everyone at the bar, and I thought, oh, well this is not at all what I wanted,” Mari continues with a sigh of contempt.

“He lives,” Hemi teases, when Even laughs at the look on Mari’s face, and they both turn to him, which makes him realise he hadn’t spoken the entire time he’d come to sit out with them. For a brief moment his heart swells: I appreciate you. Because they wait for him to arrive, whenever that is, from the recesses of his brain. “You excited to go and dance, Ev?”

“But of course,” he teases back, rolling a joint, and then pinching it between two fingers so he can lick it up the seam. With great satisfaction at the symmetry, he perches it on his leg, and then sets about rolling another one. “I know it’s absolutely dire if Hemi is dragging me out.”

“Something about the air, tonight,” Mari hums, and then laughs when Hemi starts to sing Phil Collins’ Can you Feel the Love Tonight from the Lion King, off key. “No, but seriously! It just feels...the night feels good. A fullness to it, if you will.”

Even nods, he can attest to that. Summer always makes him feel like this: like anything is possible, and everything is beautiful, even when it’s not. It’s a dangerous territory for him to be in, because he becomes so enraptured with feeling full. Wants to possess the feeling entirely, bottle it, and revisit it later. He’s never been entirely good at moderation.

“Maybe tonight you’ll meet someone,” Hemi taps the side of Even’s calf.

Even only rolls his eyes.

“What?” Hemi squawks, looking between them. “Is it so bad that I just want to see you get laid once in a while?”

“I do get laid once in a while, thank you,” Even raises his brow, even though this is not entirely true. He’s had little attention for anyone else in months, and the girls are starting to notice. He waits for them to draw connections between the letters from Isak and his level of disinterest in hooking up, or god forbid - dating.

The girls already knew that he wasn’t really interested in dating, and they never pushed that, because he has a very sufficient spiel: _having been in relationships consistently since I was fourteen, I thought my twenties would be the time to be single._ This they understood. But Even, regardless of how tender he felt about love at times, was always up for the opportunity to meet new people, if only for the sake of having an experience. He liked flirting, and feeling lit up under the gaze of someone new - and truthfully, he had little reservation about sex with someone new if there was a spark.

But now things are different - he’s not embarrassed to admit to himself that he feels like a switch has flipped. The prospect of him and Isak getting back together again has effectively reduced his level of interest in anyone else. There just is no comparison. And obviously, it’s been - five months and two weeks and four days since he’s even thought about hooking up. His tactics of evasion will require more effort in order to sidestep their curiosity.

Even feels inwardly tense about it because he knows that eventually, that he won’t be able to hide it, and then he’ll have to admit not only the gravity of his feelings, but also have to face their reservations. A part of him feels resolutely that it doesn’t actually matter what they think. It’s his relationship, his life, and his choice, ultimately, but even so, just picturing the possibility of how heavy the weight of their disapproval may be sends an uneasy stir in his gut. He does not look forward to it. He’s already on borrowed time.

He sighs. He doesn’t want this evening to be exhausting.

“Bullshit,” Hemi called, “I sleep right next door to you, and there has not been a soul in months, not since - ”

Isak is the elephant sitting on the balcony. Even feels him pressing in from all sides. Suddenly the roguish colour of the sky feels ominous, anxiety inducing. He shouldn’t drink tonight, but the longer and longer he sits here with them the more he feels the urge to get drunk, because it will ease the ache, the urgency.

The urgency for what? He reminds himself. There is no Isak here for you. Only his letter, in your drawer. Does it smell like him, do you think?

Even wants to press it to his face and inhale. He wants to eat it if it means tasting Isak’s hands. But he’s on the balcony, full of nerves again. These letters are coveted because they only arrive after Isak has read another postcard. They carry a weight. He feels the stress as much as he does the elation of having received another one.

Mari raises her brow. She accepts the joint Even passes it to her. “Don’t be such an asshole,” she chides gently. Ever the mediator. “Let him be.”

Hemi only frowns. “I’m letting him be,” Hemi mutters. She rolls her head back towards Even. “Even,” she says his name like an exhale. “Even, Even, won’t you dance with me tonight?” she sings a little.

She’s so incorrigible when she’s been drinking, her affection and obnoxious pestering spilling from her tightly wound mouth all at once. Sometimes it’s alarming, these pieces of herself Hemi keeps locked away.

He ignores her squawk as he pulls her into his lap, hugging her and ruining her neat plait. “Of course I will, darling dearest,” he teases, much to her protesting laugh. “Who else would I dream of dancing with?”

-

[FREDAG 22:55](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Shvhf-mYTJo)

By the time they make it to Fri Sjel, Hemi is well on her way to being completely drunk, sidled close to Even’s side. He pictures what they must look like strolling through some of Oslo’s up and coming neighbourhoods, the bars lit up in a reserved, muddled fashion that reminds him of oil lamps. She’s half his size easily, holding onto his arm and swinging her bottle of wine with her other hand. Even has his hands in his pockets, an image of composed calm, his shirt ruffling in the wind slightly. What song would play? Something leading towards aloof, but bright: it is a Friday, after all. The world is their oyster.

Mari decided she was staying in. She wanted to see Liesel, anyway, and Even hadn’t asked. Whatever is going on there, is going on without him needing to know.

Fri Sjel’s gatekeeper, similar to a glorified bouncer, is an individual named Alfi, who wore their hair styled in a pink Mohawk or bouffant, depending on the feeling of the evening. They wrangled Even and Hemi into a side hug, cajoling and loving teasing, in an affection that Even is rarely ready to anticipate but accepts all the same. Alfi always leaves a trail of glitter everywhere they go, and Even should really expect it, at this point. They never card Hemi. That’s one of the perks for her knowing Even.

Even had made his own reputation here, amongst the regulars at Fri. Having worked evenings off and on for the last two years at one of the more eclectic gay clubs Oslo has to offer, means you’re known around various queer circles, however often they may shift or move. Someone like Alfi, with their broad muscular frame and bright pink accessories, sits upon a throne here, allowing those in who understand what is like to be on the fringes, and sends those away who may appropriate those fringes so as to appear edgy. It can be difficult to draw the line, if a line should exist at all.

Tonight is painted in hues of dark blue and mustard yellow, the smoke pilfering the air in an intense aroma that is neither pleasant nor distinctly unappealing. The bass thumps to the beat of Even’s heart, and he sits at the bar, purveying the crowds as he sips on his vodka soda. He thinks back: Isak, underneath a pink strobe light, his face flushed, his freckles aligned like a constellation on his neck, when he had turned away. Even, behind the bar, unable to tear his gaze away. He’s in the middle of a mildly appealing conversation with Tomas and Henrik, the most regular bartenders, until the DJ switches and Hemi reappears from the crowd. Someone has drawn a red heart on her face in lipstick, and she leans against Even, her chin hooking on his shoulder.

“Ev,” she drawls, looking devilish and small. He’s always fathomed at her size, how she could fit all that person into such a compact, delicate body. Tomas looks over at her from the bar with piqued interest, the way he always has done when the girls came to visit Even when he worked. Even shifts so his body blocks Tomas’ view of Hemi just enough to be difficult.

“Yes?” he smiles, looking down at her with raised eyebrows, not unlike the way a father would gaze at their child and wait for them to ask what they really want to ask. “Have you made friends?”

“Ugh,” she just shrugs, and then pulls on his hand. “Come on, come pee with me.”

Through the halls they travel, her sweaty hand clutching on his as she pulls him into the unisex toilet. It looks like it’s seen better times than tonight. There’s only a small queue, and she turns to him. “Will you do some mdma with me?” she bats her eyelashes. He rolls his eyes, his head tipping back against the wall.

“Hemi,” he warns with only half the consternation he feels. The resolve at his ‘no-drug’ rule, necessary and immovable, wanes for a beat, especially as she pressed her index finger on the soft skin of his wrist. She knows better - Hemi does know better, and they’ve gone out plenty of times where Even sits and smokes his lungs away while the girls take pills. Those nights out, in Even’s mind, were always gleaming in their effervescent allure, so Even doesn’t understand exactly why she wants him so badly to take them with her now.

But perhaps that is not exactly true. He does understand why she asks, in spite of the very real consequences it poses for him. Even remembers being nineteen: those memories are sheathed in darkness and light, with very few pockets of gray. Post-diagnosis, post-attempt, post-depressive episode that sunk his grades and his social life. Nineteen felt on the precipice of a disaster both beautiful and dangerous. What was this glory, this horror, he had thought? Why does it feel like they are two sides of one feeling?

That October Even met Isak, and all which ensued after felt like one drawn out trip of anxiety and agony and love. And love.

God, does he remember. Nineteen, at the first sight of summer, when all was dusted in a rosy golden hue. The rush of feeling - like this is their prime, the youngest they’ll ever be. Intoxicating, the way life enchants you with promises of excitement and energy, a cat batting a toy mouse. Even and Isak. Isak and Even. Rolling around in the dirt, between the sheets, under trees and through the city, tugging on each other always like tethers out at sea, buoyant as much as they were intense, free as much as they were tied together. Kissing Isak’s mouth that summer like he was drinking from the fountain of youth. We shall never die so long as we love like this, he felt. That intensity they shared, like a fire between them, when they rolled up at house parties, and drank spirits and dared to be together, in the face of it all. Being around Isak inspired a feeling of completeness Even refused to label.

He feels himself relent, because he knows, he knows. Hemi bites her lip, like a rosebud stuck between her teeth, and she must be truly drunk, because she kisses him a little, on his hand. He can feel the spit she leaves behind on his skin. She pulls him into a stall. He takes the mdma from her.

“Where did you get this?” he raises a brow at her.

She squats to pee. Looks up at him, shaking her fringe out of her face. “Karoline gave it to me. She’s here with a few of the girls from class and some guy she’s _gagging_ for.”

“Ugh, I hate that word,” Even frowns. She pulls her trousers back up, her little blue underwear strangely endearing to him. He feels paternalistic towards Hemi that it borders on problematic for him, this strange, affectionate protection. He wants to keep her. But women like Hemi are not meant to be kept.

“Sorry,” she shrugs. Looks up at him. “It’s CamelPhat tonight. They haven’t played in Oslo forever and ever. I can’t be fucked to go to London to see them. So let's take this and dance, okay?”

Even understands the careful boundaries he must parallel. There are lines he cannot cross without certain consequences. His therapist, his parents, his doctors have told him before: your brain doesn’t work like other brains.

The only time he had taken mdma, Even was already teetering on an episode. He thought: fuck it, why not? He ended not sleeping for nearly a week. Of course, everything felt delirious and wonderful, terrible and bright at the same time. After, however, his come down - more like a total plummeting crash - lasted nearly a month. It spurned so many other unpleasant, trying consequences which Even had to face after. He cannot take drugs like neurotical people because he does not experience them the same way they do.

Regardless, he nods. She reaches her hand up to push a curl off his forehead. It feels out of place for Hemi, too tender. He wraps what he feels should be an eighth of a gram in some tissue. Even, because he’s terrible to himself, and because he just wants to release all that is inside of him - a dangerous feeling, he knows, and one he shouldn’t venture into, but does anyway - doses out about twice the amount for himself. He fashions himself a little bomb too. Even knows he won’t take it - but regardless, he wants to humour Hemi. He wants to pretend, for a moment, that they’re both on the same page.

His palms unfold in front of her, and two puny bombs. “Okay, let’s parachute them together,” Even looks down at Hemi without blinking, his gaze caught between amused and suspicious. Hemi takes his lead. Even tilts her head with a purposeful gentleness, all the way back until her scalp hits the side of the stall.

“Remember not to choke on it,” Even murmurs. She closes her eyes for half a second.

Places his thumb on her bottom lip, keeping her mouth open. He can almost feel the tip of her tongue. Then he drops it in. Hemi makes a face, but swallows. In his other hand, Even’s bomb remains tucked between his knuckles. It takes only half a second to slip it into his pocket.

“Tastes terrible,” he shakes his head in disgust.

But Hemi only smiles, dopey, excited. “Let’s have fun!” she tugs at his arm.

“I hope this is good shit,” he warns her, and she laughs a little, standing at his side and letting him lead the way back to dance floor.

-

[LØRDAG 01:44](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vSgvklLFhE0)

Roughly two joints later, Camelphat has set up, and the dancing feels good. From under the lights, Hemi looks like a cross between a [Kees Van Dongen](https://www.thediaryissue.com/the-art/kees-van-dongen/) portrait and Natalie Portman in _Léon:The Professional_ : her impish features alight with awe and pleasure, pinched in the way she holds the angles of her body, all collarbone and elbow and shoulder as she dances. She dances intensely, whereas Even feels himself unravel in a languid way to the music as it thrums through them both. The lights change again, bluish hues making shadows dance across people’s faces like they’re at the bottom of a pool. He thinks it’s the difference in what they consumed.

An endless tide seems to rush him, and for a moment the way his heart beats in his chest feels like a bird struggling to escape: it’s unendurable, the amount of feeling that courses through him. He’s very stoned for a moment. Then it passes. His stomach swoops pleasantly, and he feels a bliss pull up against him again, like a tide. The beat drops again and he closes his eyes, feels the light hit his face. The cup of water he was sipping is clenched, forgotten in his hand, and he passes it to Hemi, tilts her chin up to remind her to drink. She’s fucked.

Fucked and painted in a beautiful, deep navy and dark yellow, her left eye catching the light as she smiles up at him. She moves closer and presses her hands against his hips. Even spins them around, leaning both his forearms against her shoulders, head hanging down and bopping to the beat.

Isak and he never had the pleasure of going out like this together and getting fucked up, not truly. They had managed to get into a club once when Even was twenty but Isak only eighteen, and still so baby-faced. It was the first time Isak had tried mdma.

The drug seemed to turn Isak inside out. His favorite memory of that night, the one he always revisits first: Isak putting Even’s fingers in his mouth and sucking them right there on the dance floor, gaze look up through those ridiculously long lashes of his. They had kissed like they were trying to possess each other. For everyone to see. And he remembers the way his mouth had tasted: bitter and urgent, like drugs and drink, like a wanton, sacrilegious desire, spooling between them.

Hemi and Even dance as the music intensifies; in the nearby distance, someone whistles and more smoke fills the air again. Finally, his inhibition drawn like the final straw, he thinks: I want him. I want him so much. I want him to live inside of me forever. How long would it take to build a shrine for Isak?

Another voice answers him: oh, years. And then again, no time at all. You could paint him, you could preach him -

And still it may never be enough. What a blessing, to know it could never be enough.

Everything seems to escalate at once. The beat seems to throb, the dance floor intensifying the louder the music seems to become, as the sound stretches, expanding the tension. When will the beat drop? Please let it drop, he thinks, feeling short lived streaks of elation and anxiety course through him. People close in, all seeking the climax. He feels bodies at his back, his sides. Like everyone there is dancing together, in the same fluid moment, existing in the same space and time. Even knows he is just stoned as fuck, but he doesn’t care. His stomach swoops. Hemi moves closer, her mouth shaped like a little flower again, and when she tilts her face up to him, he closes his eyes. Feels a drip of sweat run down his eyelid, almost like a tear.

She kisses him. She kisses him, her mouth pressed up into his, and he kisses her back, for a moment, until he pulls away, trying to fight the frown. No, he thinks. He pushes back a part of her sweaty fringe, takes in the dilated pupils and the flush across her cheekbone. No, this is not the moment.

They share a look, and Even smiles at her, cupping her face with his hand. It feels like the right thing to do, to reject her mouth, but still touch her face, and this is the afterthought driven by the paternalism he hates about himself. Hemi just wants to be wanted. She wants to feel validated through desire, which surprises him a little because he remembers that feeling. It feels very young.

Suddenly, he does not wish it on anyone, this hopeful, destructive naivete. But at the same time, he does not want - explicitly does not want to be this twenty-three year old asshole tainting her destructive teenager fever dreams. Because he remembers being nineteen.

The bass finally amasses its build up and in one fell swoop, breaks. It’s positively euphoric. Hemi whistles, snapping Even out of his revery. She twists away from him, shimming, her braids hitting someone in the arm as she shakes her head.

“Fuck, this feels so good!” she yells under the music. Tips her head back so just her neck is exposed, and Even thinks: That would make the perfect photograph. What a light I could capture in her.

But it does not compare to the intensity Even has felt imaging Isak do the same thing. God, the way he imagines Isak to be in a club. He shudders with the idea. He stares up at the ceiling of the dancefloor, colourful plumes of smoke defined only by haphazardly swinging strobes lights. Even closes his eyes then, and lets himself dream:

Isak with his head tipped back, his curls matted and sweaty against his face. His arms glistening and wet as he dances - awkwardly at first, Even thinks - until he forgets about everyone around him. And then he would enter his own world, and Even would be allowed to join him, just the two of them swallowed by music.

He’s only ever heard of the kinds of clubs in Berlin, and he envies the idea that Isak goes dancing. Can’t bear to thought of who he goes with, or who he meets, or who gets to see him unravel. In this dream, Isak is skillful in the drugs he takes, and he lets Even take them, too. In his dream, there are no consequences other than a terrible hangover and the knowledge he is making questionable choices. God, it would be fucking amazing, flush with splendor and euphoria and the urge to move, the urge to unleash all that sits inside of him.

Isak showing Even his favorite clubs. He’d take his hand and pull him in without a second thought. Uncaring as to who saw them: his tongue licking at Even’s mouth, his gaze hooded underneath his long eyelashes. This is the part which tantalises Even most of all. Emerging out of the corners with Isak. No more wondering if Even is making him anxious by being too affectionate. An Isak who does not care. An Isak who is obsessed with him, his body, his skin, and does not give a fuck who sees it.

Oh, this terrible dream, this endless love. How would it feel for Isak to reach for him first? Even always waded in the mystery of Isak. What use was there to be so mysterious? Even used to want to shake him, and tell him: just act. Stop thinking, and just act. Do you want me? Show me. Do you love me? Show me.

Even aches again. He’s become carried away in this daydream. Now it hurts. He’s not able to keep his mind on track, pinballing between all his favorite images of Isak: mouth bitten, mouth bleeding, mouth turning into a smile, like it’s bursting from him. Eyes up, eyes down, hooded in their lust, eyes brimming with tears, yelling: I love you. I love you, I love you -

And why - why he loves him, Even doesn’t know, but Isak swore he’d always love him; death meant nothing to him. Isak with no fight left in him: _Heaven is only a place on earth with you. If there is another heaven, it is not for us._ Retreat from this memory, he tells himself. This is not a place you can to go.

Hemi whistles, and pulls on his hand, their skin slipping from the sweat. Even follows her blindly, affectionate, wanting to hold her and keep her safe from everyone around her. He wonders, as he often does when they stand close together, how it is possible for one person to be this small.

Outside, the air is a shock to his system. Even regards the courtyard though he’s surveyed it a thousand times before. Everything slows down. His daydreams dissipate as he takes in his surroundings. Tries to centre himself. His heart doesn’t feel like it’s going to propel from his chest, and he’s made acutely aware of the sweat dripping down his back in little rivulets. Hemi finds a cinder block and perches, looking around in her bag for the joint Even had rolled them earlier.

“I feel so nice, don’t you?” she gushes, turning to him. Her eyes are twinkling as she smiles, her teeth clenched just a little too hard to be comfortable. Even reaches over and pulls her chin down, and just like he thought, her jaw pops a little. Her eyes trail down to look at his hands, but he’s already let go of her face.

Even looks at her fully. Registers her high cheekbones, straight dark eyelashes, wet fringe is pushed back from her forehead. She is almost unassuming in her beauty. Sometimes, in the right light, Hemi looks just like she did when they first met. Not in the sense that she hasn’t aged since then, but more so to how she looks at him. How she looks at him when she thinks he doesn’t notice.

Even remembers it so clearly. It was the September when everything felt like it was burning down to the ground. Isak had left. Even had just moved back in with his parents. The lease had ended. He never could unpack all the luggage from that apartment. It was meant to go to Berlin with him. Instead he would bury himself in his old violet duvet and sleep during the day. Something about being in Oslo in the summer without Isak felt wrong. So he stayed inside.

During the evenings, after his parents retired to their room, Even walked the city. Sometimes he’d ride the tram until it’s last stop, slink around the area for a while, and then catch the last one of the night to another borough. The city had a certain quiet to it that made Even feel - just, he could empathise with the stillness. He so desperately wished he could have lived inside of it. The idea that life would continue on after their breakup felt like an agony worse than the break up itself. To know that Isak was Even’s Achilles heel was terrible enough. Why do all other wounds enter through this one? But to accept he could withstand the loss over time seemed unbearable. How could he diminish it into something to be forgotten?

He’d rather live in the agony.

He had stumbled upon Hemi on drunk in front of a storefront. She asked him for a cigarette with clunky Norwegian. He remembers telling her that she looked like a [Hi Jiayang ](http://www.artnet.com/artists/he-jiaying/renwu-CSdGufi8kNapk4wWWNzczQ2)painting and she - so memorably, now - had stared at him flatly and said she wasn’t interested in pick up lines.

It had been the first time Even laughed in weeks. He sat down on the curb next to her and they smoked a dozen cigarettes, until Hemi had sobered up some. Together they watched the sun rise, and then he walked her back towards the bus stop.

She’d regarded Even approaching her with decided suspicion. Now, Even recognises this is just how Hemi is: her guard is always up to hide the little hints of naivete, her insatiable curiosity, and sheer lack of experience. Like Isak, she lived on the defensive and a little too eager to prove herself. Even realises how much his roommates mirrored a similar dynamic to Eskild’s Kollektiv.

He learned Hemi had just moved to Oslo after somehow having managed to finish her high school studies early, which Even didn’t know was possible. Something about going to an international high school and credit obligations. She was looking to work a little and maybe find a place to live with cool people. She was not interested in talking about her life back in Helsinki. According to her, there was no life there to reflect on.

The following summer, Even had returned from his eight months of travel and spent much of his time acclimating. Re-learning what he thought he knew. He had returned with the perspective that his life could look different if he tried. He found a different job at a different cafe, texted only a few people that he was back in town. One of them was Hemi.

There are few distinct things he remembers of that summer: looking at the light reflected on expansive white walls, creating shadows through the windows. Oslo had so many blank spaces. The way the air smelt underneath the sun; cut grass and fragrant wildflowers seeped into the atmosphere everywhere he went. He recognised a quietness settling in him, there was no doubt about that. The ghosts he left in Oslo appear less like a ceaseless torment. He could try and move on from those grievances, at least a little.

Now, sitting next to Hemi smoking his joint, her legs twitching with an energy she can’t quit, Even nevertheless draws comparisons between her and Isak. Especially their reticent attitude, a thinly sheathed defense mechanism: young and alone and wounded in the world gives off a particular shadow Even recognises so well. Of course, Hemi would probably not appreciate Even telling her this. So he never has.

Now he wonders what she would say if he did. Softened by the md, she’d be pliant to his ideas, less taciturn about any mention of Isak. When they all started living together, Even had thought there was no point in bringing that part of his life up if he could help it. Speaking it made it more real. He left his explanations of Isak and him as brief because at the time they were to painful, and by the time they weren’t, the girls had come to understand that relationship in a particular way. He wonders if in a parallel universe Mari and Hemi hear the whole story: they’d see Even in a completely different light and understand it differently.

Or maybe they wouldn’t. His thoughts cycle back to his original standby: it’s his life, regardless, his choice. His Isak. And for right now, for Even, these letters stand alone in their enormity. They need to arrive so long as Isak needs to write them. Even cannot fathom telling him no, no matter what it may bring him.

How could he?

After he returned to Berlin, Even spent weeks obsessed with the image of Isak curled up in his bed, tears rolling down the side of his face silently, like he never learned how to make noise when he was upset. He remembered: Isak did not know how to be comforted. It was not an experience he was used to. If only he could explain this to Hemi and Mari. But even that felt wrong, like a betrayal to talk about Isak’s life to people who were little else than strangers to him.

So Even remains silent, and indignant, and aloof about the letters. It is important for Isak to keep writing. He thinks of the letter again. Isak, so resistant to tenderness. Here he is writing Even tenderly. Isak’s audience of one.

Even inexplicably thinks of one of his [favorite poems](http://poeticfuck.blogspot.com/2008/06/siken-snow-and-dirty-rain.html):

 _I made this place for you. A place for you to love me._  
_If this isn’t a kingdom then I don’t know what is._

Hemi passes him the joint. Her voice a break into the opaque moment, slicing through it. “What is it like to fall in love?”

He thinks of Isak’s letters. Wonders what he would say if asked. Would it be similar to what Even understands it to be? He decides his words. “It feels like a relief.”

Hemi sighs. “Really?”

Even shrugs one shoulder. The hand that isn’t holding his joint is rubbing a small pattern into the knee of his trousers. He’s doing it without even realising. “No, not really. Or, it does, after you fall in love. But there is a time in which you are just falling, and that is terrifying.”

A crushing grip on Even’s lungs. A gravitational pull, his eyes following Isak wherever he went. Thinking: Who are you? Why does it feel like I’ve been waiting for you to arrive?

Hemi tokes and coughs, covering her mouth. Her knee knocks into Even’s knee. “Why is it terrifying? Because you’re not sure?”

“No, because you _are_ sure,” Even says. “Because there’s one thing for sure. It’s a knowing that nothing will ever be the same again after this person.”

She lets out a small sound. “That is not comforting at all, Even.”

He smiles at her, tenderness sitting in his chest. She returns his smile. “I’m sorry it’s not comforting.”

“It’s okay. Can I have a cigarette now? I feel like everything is spinning.”

He nods. Finds his tobacco in his pocket. Rolls her a cigarette, then rolls himself one. Hemi has a little blue lighter in her tiny bag, and she lights his and then her own. A drag through her lips, the smoke filtering out her nose, like some kind of ingénue he’d seen in a Jean Luc-Godard film. She peeks at him through her lashes.

“How many times have you been in love?”

“Twice,” Even answers.“But they were very different experiences.”

“Oh?” Hemi raises an eyebrow. “How so? Or, it what way?”

“Well,” Even starts. Then he doesn’t know exactly he wants to say, so he waits a beat. It feels like this maybe a one-time occurence, so he wants to get his response right.

“I met Sonja when I was fourteen, and she and I were like best friends. So I fell in love with her, because we were best friends, and when you're fifteen and you find someone who likes the music you like, or shares your sense of humor, or has the same friends, it's the nicest feeling in the world.”

“I see,” Hemi considers this. “Back home we have a word for that. _Teinirakkaus_. It means ‘teenage love.’”

“I think I like the English phrase, ‘puppy love’ best,” he chuckles. “We were together too long in the end. But after I was diagnosed, it was the safest thing I knew, even though I think there was so much drama going on that by then we kept breaking up because we were just exhausted by each other.”

“And Isak?”

Even tries not to think too hard on her assumption, because it is not wrong.

“I fell in love with Isak, yes. He was my first true love,” Even thinks he’d not be so forthcoming if it weren’t for the smoking, which smoothed his edges out. Figures Hemi will just drop it now.

“How was it different?” Hemi asks. She clears her throat. Even wonders if she can feel his hesitation, or if it’s just his own thoughts projecting out into the night. “Or, what made him different?

“Everything,” Even says. “Isak was like a lighthouse when it was dark.”

“You’ve alway had a way with words, Even,” Hemi sounds sad when she says this. She looks down at her knees.

Even nods, unsure of what to say now. He feels like he’s said too much, or hurt her feelings somehow, even though she asked. Perhaps he should have avoided being too honest.

But then again, perhaps he shouldn’t have. This was exactly the type of recurring habit that always fucked the people he loved over. But this is condescending. People didn’t like being kept in the dark. Hemi is no different. She asked for his rosy truths, and he gave them to her, never mind their thorns.

Eventually they’re joined by Karoline and her friends, who frequent Fri Sjel enough that Even welcomes their interruption. It eases the burnt residue of their conversation into something more playful.

They leave laughing. Together they walk over the Akerselva river and watch the sky fill with light again, a never ending civil twilight.

-

 

[LØRDAG 06:43](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DGpxS4lfXoU)

Even sits out on the balcony, alone. He ruminates on his conversation with Hemi towards the end of their night. What made him different?

He is tired in the most frustrating way: unable to be creative, but incapable of lying down to sleep yet. He didn’t need to smoke that last joint, truly, and now he just feels energised without release. So Even revisits the conversation with Hemi again. He smokes his cigarette, inhaling far deeper than he would ever let anyone see normally. _Isak was like my lighthouse_. This was true. Even knew this was true, because he had written a poem about it:

I am thinking from the depths of an ocean  
A dark distance so great only light may reach it.  
A single gaze illuminating. Gabriel went home;  
God is not holy,  
There are no angels here.  
Here, there is night on my heel  
Heavy in wonder -  
I  know your sleep. How it rocks and beckons.  
What constitutes a miracle but us?  
Sitting on the edge of the universe,  
Your love gleaming, your love a lighthouse,

a massacre of brightness; tremor, and faith - 

Isak was like his lighthouse not just because he shone a bright light through Even’s darkness. It was because Isak remained resolute.

There was little about Even that made Isak flinch. Sometimes Isak would take on every single terrible thing that ever happened to them, head on. Tell me now to save me later, he’d say. Like he was used to it. Like he could take it on no matter what, or he was willingly to die trying. It used to worry Even. Created terrible doubts which his mind did not hesitate to spin into festering insecurities. In the deep pits of his own worrying, he’d ask: why does he stay? This was a thought that had always plagued Even. The seeping, depressing paranoia he experienced in moments of emotional upswing. When Even felt exhausted and angry, and a bleak response which would send Isak into a silence. Even would think, when will he end up leaving? When will enough be enough for Isak?

In retrospect, he understands his disorder differently. It requires action to understand his own brain, and sometimes it is an exhaustive, uphill battle. The meds help. The meditation helps. His therapist helps a lot in understanding the blurring lines between real and fiction.

When one cannot always trust their emotions, one has to consider the boundaries of Truth. Which truths did Even create himself? Fact: Isak has a tough skin, but Even didn’t give it to him. False: Even is too much of a handful. Fact: he didn’t have to apologise for existing. False: Even isn’t good enough. Fact: Isak always told him he was the best thing in his life. False: Isak left because Even is bipolar. Fact: Isak left because Even broke a promise. False: Even damaged Isak beyond repair. Fact: Isak came with his own wounds.

Even knew Isak didn’t merely shine a light through the darkness, like a beacon bringing him back to shore. No, that is a oversimplification.

In the dark - in the night - he would hear Isak say: _Let’s pretend we are the only ones who exist. Let’s go into the place where no one can find us. Have you found it? I’m already there. See me yet? I’m waving. Come over here. Come be with me._

He can still hear him say it. The heat of his breath tickling Even’s cheek. His hands cupping his face under the duvet, preventing any light from slipping through the crevices.

What made Isak different? Now Even articulates what he could not before: Isak understood his darkness because Isak has a darkness in him, too.

-

SCENE:  
A RED LIGHT. TWO HANDS ARRIVE THROUGH THE DARKNESS. THEY SHIFT. THERE IS A SENSE OF IMMINENT LIFE TO THEM: WHEN WILL THEY STILL?

SCENE:  
A FIELD OVERTHROWN BY RED POPPIES. THEY WALLOW. THERE IS A SENSE OF IMMINENT DEATH TO THEM: WHEN WILL THEY WILT?

SCENE:  
A young man visible only by his silhouette. His shadow tinged with a red haze.

Someone is speaking off camera.

“But you don’t understand. My mind is a wrangled beast. A caged beast. I can’t ask for you to understand at all.”

CUT:  
Even has written it maybe a hundred times. He tears out each page.

I can’t ask for you to love me. I can’t ask for you to love me. I can’t ask for you to love me - love me  
Love me. Love me.

SCENE:  
A RED LIGHT. IS IT A MOON? IS IT A SUN? IS IT A SINGLE RED BULB IN THE BASEMENT OF A NIGHTCLUB?

Two shadows join together. Behind them, a clock ticks. This is a dream sequence. The hands are moving counterclockwise.

SCENE:  
ONLY THE LABOURED BREATH OF THE LONELY.

Someone whispers: Remember when we had to hide it?

Someone answers: I do, I do.

THE CLOCK TICKS.

CUT:  
[Working title: Rome is Burning] [Act III]  
Isak speaks his name like solace. Having sex on weekend mornings: what started lazy turned fervent, and Isak fixes Even with his hooded gaze. On the verge of coming, Even could not look away: Isak’s body a sight of ruin - there would be a moment when his mouth would move on his own accord.

 _Even_ , he’d say. Softly first. A long E. A firm N.

 _Even_ , like a warning, like the tail end of a prayer. How did it feel to be holy?

Like you were constantly on the verge of destroying everything you helped create.

-

  
~~ TRI-SQUAD ~~

MIMZ 13:40 // everyone’s alive right?

HEMROD 14:02 // I’m up now and starving. Are you cooking?

MIMZ 14:17 // ja come out

MIMZ 16:21 // ev hemi and i are going to watch a film, you gonna be around?

HEMROD 16:25 // I convinced her that Beetlejuice was a necessary post-hangover cure

MIMZ 16:27 // i’m sorry, i believe you called the movie ‘morbid cuddly’

HEMROD 16:28 // well, it is a feel-good deep down

MIMZ 16:32 // even??

-

SØNDAG 11:57

Even wakes when the door cracks open. He wonders what time it is. The sun is already high in the sky above him, casting a hotspot on part of his bed.

Mari stands in the doorway. “I thought you had left to see your mother,” she starts with him. His stomach sinks. Thinks: fuck, how long have I been sleeping for? She raises an eyebrow. “You okay?”

He nods. His jaw feels sore. He swallows once in case his voice cracks of disuse. “I am okay.”

Mari comes to sit down on the side of his bed. She looks at him with plain curiosity. Her hair is down for once, and it sits like a cascade of blonde down to her elbow. “Are you sure?”

Even looks at her and then rubs his eyes. He recognises now the signs he has overslept, and it makes him feel exhausted. He pulls the duvet down just a little, now aware of how warm he is.

“Mari,” he frowns. “Why do you ask?”

She bites her lip. Looks out his window for a moment and then back at Even. Now he’s really starting to feel nervous. What has happened?

“Hemi said you took ecstasy with her,” Mari says. She seems caught between resigned and a little upset. “Did you?”

Even shakes his head. “No, I didn’t.”

“Then why does she think you did?”

A sigh. He wishes it wasn’t first thing he has to discuss as he wakes up, but he starts to imagine the kind of anxiety it must have put Mari through. She is the only person he’s ever told about his first md experience outside of those who were there for the aftermath.

“Because I let her think it,” Even mumbles. He feels a bit embarrassed now. “I just didn’t feel like telling her that I couldn’t. I just didn’t want to say no.”

Mari regards him for a moment, and he wonders what is going through her head. “Okay,” she says finally. A deciding note in her voice, like this answer is sufficient. She does not ask him why he didn’t want to say no. Mari has always been firm on the fact that she never wants to become the friend who makes Even feel patronised or hounded. He’s always appreciated this about her, because she is the kind of friend who will worry a lot nevertheless.

“Well,” she hums, “Are you okay, anyway? You’ve been sleeping since you both came back. I thought you were just out doing other shit, until Hemi woke up yesterday and told me about your night out.”

“Well, I promise, there was no drug-taking of the sort, unless you count weed,” Even assures her again. Then he stares down at his hands. “Which I don’t. I don’t know why I slept that long. I have been feeling kind of low recently.”

She picks at a thread on his duvet, and he watches her roll it between the pads of her fingers. “I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” Mari shakes her head. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

Even feels a smile crawl up his face. He wishes she would look up to see it. “Thank you.”

But Mari still doesn’t look up. Something sits in her chest, bothering her, Even can feel it radiating from her. A nervous energy. He nudges her with his knee. The duvet shuffles loudly from his efforts.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Now it’s my turn to ask if you are okay.”

“Oh, yeah,” Mari brushes it off. Then she heaves a sigh so heavy it invalidates what she just said. “I don’t know if I am right now. But that’s just how it is sometimes, right?”

Even considers this. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, sometimes that’s how it is. But if you want to talk, you know I’m here.”

“Thanks, babe,” finally her chin lifts, and it is the same Mari he sees everyday. She even smiles at him. “Want to watch a film with me?”

Of course he does. Even can think of no better pleasure on a Sunday than watching a film. Up until recently when things started to become busier (and Even knows, because more often he retreats into his brain, consumed by his daydreams, by his elegies to Isak) they had stopped their weekly movie night.

Even had shown Mari all his favorite directors their first year: The beauty of theatrics in Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge and Romeo + Juliet. The complex expression of fear and the[ subconscious](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CW9qs8j34wM) in Ingmar Bergman. What made Hitchcock one of his favorite directors, if not for the obsessive need to perfect every shot, to have every scene fill a purpose? How exactly did the colour palettes of[ Park Chan-Wook](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=brjtL-2kE9A) shake Even into an excited frenzy? Hours were spent where all Mari and he would do were watch films and talk about them into the early hours of the morning.

Spurned by their class on Scandinavian film, they had worked their way through contemporary works by Lars Van Trier, Susanne Bier, Hoyt Van Hoytema. Later still, they bonded over their love of queer cinema. On his last birthday, Mari had taken him to see Moonlight. They both had left the theatre a little cloudy eyed.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Depends. What are you in the mood for?”

Even considers this. “Something smaller.”

Mari nods, perhaps she expects this. Neither of them care for blockbusters very much because they don’t teach them anything like smaller productions do. When Emmanuel Lubezki captured the cinematography for The Tree of Life, how did he manage to illustrate the feeling of existentialism? By traveling to a rock at three in the morning to capture a few seconds worth of light? Which angles suit a hand-held camera best, when all you have is the gear you can lift on your back?

He saw the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and was so moved by Ellen Kuras’ construction of suspended dream sequences orchestrated to blur the lines between the conscious and the fragmented unconscious that Even watched it almost four times in one evening just so he could take note of every single thing that inspired him.

There is a sense of vastness, of the power of expression that inspires Even when he watches a particularly excellent film, one that derives from back-breaking work and risking the vulnerability which accompanies putting your vision out there. It’s not the money that moves them. It’s the art.

“I just rented [Breathless](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2K-0JGUo0qA) again. Or there’s this film that came out in the England called God’s Own Country,” She offers.

Even has seen Breathless when he became obsessed with the tragedy of Jean Seberg. He spent a good six months being obsessed with tragic actors. James Dean, River Phoenix, Jean Seberg - and the list went on. First he had found a podcast about her life, which spurned him to watch her entire discography. Bonjour Tristesse. Joan of Arc. And Breathless. He remembers the dread in stomach as he marvelled her beauty, rendered timeless on screen.

He’s also seen God’s Own Country when it started showing in November. While being cinephiles were Mari and his favourite past time, once in awhile a film begged Even to see it alone. He had left the theatre feeling wrung out and displaced, walking alongside the river lost in thought.

“Let’s do the second one,” he decides finally. He sits up and pushes his hair away from his face. “It’s a considerable debut for Francis Lee, and both the leads are unknowns. You’ll probably love it. I did.”

Mari rolls her eyes. “Of course you’ve already seen it,” she taps his leg then. “Okay, meet you in the living room.”

Later, after the movie, Even finds himself sitting out on the balcony again. He feels lost in a sea of thoughts. Feels touches of elation. Feels touches of doubt. Wades in them both. Forever treading the waters in his brain. He can’t help but think of the shots in the film, the great expanse of a country he knows little about. These shots, their purple hue, saying to Even: look at this barren, bleak world. How unsure everything is.

How beautiful too.

-

 

 


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi...thank you so much for the response, your comments, bookmarks and kudos mean so much to me <3
> 
> A note or two: i'm writing the last chapter as we speak, so I'm hoping I will be able to update faster. Edited and picked by the most helpful @argentae & @imminentinertia & @Im_a_bird thank you all again so much. All other mistakes are my own.
> 
> There is discussion of bipolar disorder in terms of treatment, some of which include meditation, medication and exercise. None of this is written with the intention of medical advice, and I do not wish to treat bipolar disorder lightly. My inbox is always open for questions, comments, concerns.

-

[MANDAG 06:33](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F9RkMxXvyG8)

Even wakes with his alarm. The dark cloud sitting in his chest has waned a little. He crosses his legs on his yoga mat and tries to meditates for five minutes, rest, then five more minutes. Rest again.

The thoughts continue to creep in. Even sweeps them until they thin out. Tries to meditate for another five minutes. Last night, Isak messaged him. Even had left his phone on charge in his room while he and Mari watched their movie.

Isak 17:04 // _i took some mushrooms. Not by myself._  
Isak 17:05 // _i feel fine. but i’m sure they’ll set in sometime soon_  
Isak 17:11 // _just remembered why i texted you in the first place. My roommate put on a Sufjan Stevens album. U love him, I know_  
Isak 19:00 // _this song has gone on for_  
Isak 19:01 // _so long. It’s been like an hour, I swear_  
Isak 19:17 // _it makes me think of you. Everythig he’s sing is so true_  
Isak 19:19 // _ugh_  
Isak 19:23 // _boy, we can do so much more togther_

Even googled the last message with a sneaking suspicion it was a lyric. He was correct. The first result to come up on Google had been a Sufjan Steven’s song from Age of Adz, called [Impossible Soul](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kyEimT5VLnE). The length of the song is steep at twenty five minutes, and Even imagines it must have felt like it extended on forever.

Earlier he sat and listened to it twice through, the second time watching a live version on youtube. It was a performance inside a performance - a saga of sorts. Even can appreciate theatrical influence, and more importantly, music as devices of storytelling. He’s not so sure there’s been another artist who’s made him so terribly distraught otherwise. Sufjan is a gift.

He sent Isak one message in return. Any more than that and he wouldn’t be able to resist talking to him all the time.

Til Isak 22:04 // _It is indeed a very long song. I’ll probably never listen to it again without thinking of you first now. You’ll have to write me all about that trip._

Okay, Even, he tells himself. Enough now. Try to centre yourself. This is overkill.

Breathe. Steady, steady. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Again.

Outside, the sun is obscured by the clouds, and they hang heavy with impending rain showers. The flush hot swell of the weekend has passed in time for Monday. Even still feels tired.

The first thing he does while he walks to work is call his mother. He should have visited her on Sunday, like he always does, but instead he had been sleeping. They always have breakfast together on Sunday mornings unless he’s working the night before. She won’t worry, at least not right away, so long as he checks in which her soon enough. It goes to voicemail and she’s most likely going to still be asleep, so he leaves her a voicemail while he strolls through Sofienbergparken. The blooms on the trees lining the road hang like bulbous pink lanterns.

Since Even moved out, his room no longer exists in his parents’ apartment. He asked them to change it into something else. He has a habit of burning down bridges to the person he used to be. Now, his parents have taken to sleeping in separate bedrooms. He doesn’t want to be nosy, but he thinks he should ask sooner than later. His mother spent so long worrying about him. It’s only fair that he takes the time to worry about her.

Tove is roasting when Even shows up for work. She gives him a smirk and a wave, watching as beans roll down the funnell and into a bag near her feet. Amir is behind the till, a friendly service orientated smile plastered on his face as he takes a cash payment from a tourist who is trying to count out the correct change.

He finds his apron quickly, tying it on, and goes to help Amir start on the line of drinks needing to be made. Within the next ten minutes the line has been cleared and there is no longer anyone sitting in their small seating area. Tove comes to stand near the bar. She points a pair of tongs at him.

“You,” she waves, throwing a dish towel over her shoulder. Her thick eyebrows are drawn up to match her frown. “Did not respond to any of the texts I sent you. I swear I think my friends saw you out on Saturday! At Sjela? You weren’t working, were you?”

“They probably did. I’ve been hungover ever since,” Even shrugs. It is easy to tell little lies like this. Tove has the type of personality where all her edges rub up against his, and he never feels the need to always accommodate her the way he might with his other coworkers.

“Oh, too much of a good thing?” Tove grins.

Amir seems to be more comfortable than he did the last time Even worked with him, which must have been his second shift. Now he’s leaning against the counter, watching Tove and Even’s banter exchange over the espresso machine.

“I’m going to dial in again,” Even tells them. “What was the yield this morning?”

“36.2. Dialed in at 18.9 for 28 seconds” Amir answers. “The roast is from sixth June. A little nutty of an aftertaste for me, but let me know what you think. Tim and I did the cupping on it. My first one at TW.” He says this with a small hint of pomp. It’s kind of cute.

Even nods. “Cool.” He digs underneath the till for his tiny cup. It’s hiding behind a stack of beans they took off the shelf.

“Also,” Amir drawls, a hint of humor evident in his tone. “You didn’t tell me your name last time. I thought you were Finn this entire time, and then I met Finn, and it became very confusing.”

Even laughs. Dials in at 19 and then pours. Tastes the espresso and feels it’s a little under extracted. Where’s this hint of berry he’s supposed to be tasting? He readjusts back to 18.9 grams. Purges. Then adjusts again to 18.8. “No, not Finn. I’m sure he loved that though, considering we get it all the time - being two tall blonde dudes. Anyway, I’m sorry, I have terrible manners. I’m - ”

“Even, yeah, I figured that out. The Even,” Amir interrupts him. He’s still smiling. “You’re only the best barista of all the hip cafes in Grünerløkka. Tove says you’re Tim’s protégé.”

“It’s true,” Tove nods. “Even is Tim’s tiny son.”

“Okay, that is not true,” Even shakes his head with incredulity. “And I hope you don’t say that within earshot of him, for the love of God.”

“Of course not,” Tove just laughs. “Even’s not only one of the best, he’s literally the only person here who’s part-time, because he’s twenty three and a student. Can you believe this bullshit? The rest of us are like trying to be professional baristas, and he’s over here being a full-time student. We’re his side thing.”

“Right,” Even says, not believing her for a moment. “Anyway, I am nowhere near the best barista of any sort. Amongst anyone. And especially if we’re including Tim and his crew of connoisseurs. I’m literally a pathetic art student. I just like coffee. If anything I am a walking cliché.”

“Well, you are a cliché, that I won’t deny,” Tove rolls her eyes. She turns to Amir. “You see what I have to deal with? Even’s the most humble of assholes. Ignore him. I already showed Amir the videos of your latte art from the London Coffee Festival in April. It’s on Youtube. You’re the official ‘Milkman’ Even. The Milkman of Norway. I’ve read the comments.”

“You should never read comments on the internet,” Even frowns. He goes about making himself a cortado. Soon, another queue starts up, and Tove has to return to finishing her roasting batch as Amir takes orders. Luckily, there isn’t enough time to continue that line of conversation for the rest of Even’s shift.

-

TIRSDAG 13:21

Even has the day off, so he spends it lounging around the apartment. He should go work on at least one of the projects he has ongoing in a sequestered darkroom at Chateau Neuf, but instead he’s scrolling through Instagram. Most of the accounts he follows are artists he likes or baristas he admires. Only very few people know about his account, and barely any of them are from his school days. Social media and Even don’t really mix well.

Of course there are handful of people who are the exception to the rule. One of them is Magnus, who out of all of Isak’s friends, Even felt the most connected to. It stemmed from Magnus’ understanding and experience with bipolar disorder through his mother, but it grew into an actual friendship because Magnus had a way about him that was warm - he was open to a fault, almost. The way he would try so desperately to understand other people and seemed just a touch too naive. Even grew to realise that that is just how Magnus is.

The post is just a picture of a riverside. The sun is reflecting off the surface of the water, three sets of feet dangling off the side of whatever dock they were sitting on. Even presumes it’s Magnus hand holding a beer, presumably his phone in the other. Truthfully, nothing about the photo is noteworthy, and Even would have continued to scroll, if he hadn’t caught the geotag.

 _Katerblau, Berlin, Germany_.

He taps on the photo. Even surveys the three handles that appear: Jonas is tagged in it, and so is Madhi, though his tag is located in the corner, which means that the only other set of feet must be Isak’s. Isak does not have Instagram, it seems, or he chose not to be tagged in it.

He stares at the photo for maybe two minutes, lost in thought. Then he goes to Jonas’ profile, hoping it isn’t private. A further thrill when he sees that it is public. There, in the left corner is a photo which makes Even’s stomach actually flutter like he’s housing a kaleidoscope of butterflies.

The photo is slightly blurry, but in an effortless fashion Jonas always seemed able to exude. Jonas’s hair is shorter and his face more mature. Even’s eyes automatically focus in on Isak. The first thought that comes to mind is how grown he looks. His hair, highlighted by the sunshine in front of them brings out the strawberry blonde of his curls. Isak’s tanned, which reminds Even of the time they went to Morocco and Isak’s awful sunburn turned into a rather delicious late summer bronze. His eyes are crinkled up in laughter, his mouth split wide: Even can nearly measure the exact width between his two front teeth.

The caption says: _Katzenzungen in der Katzenhaus_

Even studies the photo, again and again. He does not want to miss a single detail. For one thing, Isak has obviously put on some weight since Even saw him last. His cheek bones are less pronounced, his cheeks flush with life and colour again. There is an shadow along his jaw that Even doesn’t remember before. His eyes - from what Even can make out - are less flat. He’s obviously been out in the sun, Even surmises, which can only mean that there are less days that Isak spends in his bed and more time out in the city and experiencing the fruitful beginnings of summertime in Berlin. Even doesn’t realise how long he’s been looking at Isak’s face until his phone goes unexpectedly black from lack of use.

He’s smiling, Even thinks. He looks happy. Isak’s laugh felt like a well earned prize, because it always broke from his mouth like he couldn’t help but let it escape.

A warmth expands in his gut, a knot he didn’t realise was there untangling itself. A funny little feeling niggling up into his heart. A contented sigh. A swell of pride. He’s okay, Even thinks. He’s going to be okay.

-

ONSDAG 19:32

Even’s therapy appointment is followed by a rock climbing session with Mari at Kolsås Klatreklubb. The exercise-after-seeing-therapy rule went in effect at the end of Mari’s and his second semester. Even’s first set of exams were impending, and his project wasn’t quite how he wanted it, and he spent too much time socialising to effectively prepare as much as he should have. There were a few too many sleepless nights for him, and oft occurring moments of existential meanderings left both girls a little concerned that he might actually drop out.

Somehow, with a stroke of genius (that felt more like a stroke of mania) Even turned his entire project around just in time to submit and somehow ended up finishing with decent grades. All three of them had ended the year in fairly high spirits. Soon after, he had crashed.

Then, in the third week of June - which Even remembers because his brain will probably never let him forget the twenty-first - Nils’ partner suddenly broke her hip, and he had to gravely reduce his practice. At first Even had hoped he could continue to see Nils, even through Skype - but the surgery didn’t go exactly as planned, and Nils had to help his patients relocate to other therapists. Even didn’t exactly take the change well at first.

Even had seen Nils for four years - through part of his relationship with Isak, and trying to plan a giant trip halfway across the world when he was pretty depressed most of the time, and applying for university. Nils had been there as a constant: a squat, grandfatherly looking man with a gentle, paternal manner. He used to sit quietly, his round head perched upon a healthy amount of neck as he’d nod his head slowly with his eyes half closed as Even would rattle on. Calmly, he’d raise his finger when he’d want to press Even further, or discuss alternative perspectives.

He trusted Nils with the finer tunings of how his disorder made him feel, but importantly, how Even felt overall - his life, his love, his art, his future. What was going on with Even? Nils always seemed to want to know. Even needs that. He needs that stability as much as he rejects it at times - and he needs the investment.

Susanne is different. Perhaps because she is younger. Or because she is female. Even didn’t truly know where he stood with her for a long time - her face focused on his while he talked; errant pencil scribbling as she took everything in. And then there were times where she said nothing to him at all, and he would leave feeling insecure and confused. His mother had suggested he change again.

But Even hadn’t. It felt too much like giving up.

Adjusting to Susanne that summer had taken work. In the beginning, Even often felt completely exhausted by therapy, because Susanne had introduced alternative practices such as mindfulness and meditation, which all sounded a little…silly. What use would positive thinking do for his brain? He’d been disgruntled about the changes she wanted him to make for weeks.

Mari made the plan that they find something to do after he would see Susanne.

“You come home with all this pent up energy,” Mari had said one day after he’d finished a session and was ready to jump on the girls for moving his books to a different table. “We should work out or something. Try and help channel it.”

Between the routine of seeing Mari after to workout, and actually implementing meditation, Even began to understand how much it helped his mood swings. The looming anxiety of an impending episode still reluctantly clung, because of course it did. But the days became a little easier to manage. During the nights he actually felt like he could soothe himself into sleep without wanting to sleep forever.

Rock climbing is kind of their thing. The indoor gym meant that they could climb at any time of year, and it offered a calming effect on Even as he focused on his reach strategy and ample time for a steady stream of conversation supplied by Mari. He’s always been obsessed with her ability to provide comfort without seeming to invade his space. Even’s always wished he could mimic that ability - but intuition is hard to imitate.

Now, she meets him with her hands already chalked. She’s wearing the plaits again, like Hemi often does - and he wonders if this is a style or if it’s entirely accidental.

“What are you smiling about?” Mari chuckles. Even just shakes his head.

“Just thinking,” Even shrugs a little. “How are you? Did you end up seeing Liesel?”

“How did you know about that?”

Even pauses for a moment. “Um, you told me this morning?”

“Oh, right,” Mari nods like she remembers what he’s talking about. He starts to open another line of questioning when she stalks off in front of him.

When he’s changed and put his bag in a locker, Even joins her on the floor. He chalks his hands and stretches his arms. Mari loops her ropes through the harness and adjusts her auto belay. “So? Back to my original question. How are you?”

Mari doesn’t look at him at first. She shrugs. Then, “I don’t know. Fine, I guess. How was Susanne?”

Even checks his carabiner before falling in step beside her. They start to climb. “She’s Susanne,” he says after a few minutes of ascending. “Seriously, what’s going on? What’s this not talking.”

Mari pauses where she’s reaching and looks over at him, and for a moment Even feels like he’s misspoke. “I’m just - you literally aren’t speaking to me, either.”

“Mim,” Even pulls himself up until he’s nearly eye level with her. He isn’t able to read her exactly, only that it’s unlike her to be irritated at being asked a simple question and he - he can’t help but feel a little worried. Mari isn’t often found in a sour mood, unless she really is stressed about something. “I _do_ talk to you. What’s going on? Since when do we do this?”

“This?” Mari asks.

Even gestures between them. “Argue on the wall.”

It’s Even’s attempt to minimise the chance of it evolving into bickering. He also doesn’t want Mari to acknowledge there is distance between them; the reality of it does tinge him with a little sadness. It’s just that he’s been thinking a lot - about Isak, as he has been off-and-on the last few months, and he can’t share it with them without risking a comment he doesn’t particularly want. Even doesn’t want their opinions getting into his head before he’s been able to try at all with Isak - whenever that is. He can’t chance dooming it before Isak even steps foot in this city again.

Deep down, he doesn’t want them to say: Okay, so if he’s so certain he wants to be with you, when is he coming back? Where is this going?

The truth is, Even doesn’t know the answer to that question. So he doesn’t ask it.

Mari deflates a little. “You’re right. I’m just really hating my job right now because Anne left, and now I’m just there all day long, and I’m anxious about my grades, and I’m all fucked up about everything else that’s going on.”

“Everything else?” Even prompts. He nudges her shoulder with one knuckle gently. She glances at him.

“Everything else being that I think I may be seeing Liesel, and I think I may like her. But she’s just - hard to read, I guess. I’m not sure she - she’s always been in the same relationship.”

Even considers this. He’s in tune with her enough that this doesn’t really surprise him. But he can read it, on her face, how much this is posing a dilemma for her. “Well, what exactly has transpired?”

“Well, she says she really likes me, and that she’s just kind of - stuck with Madds,” Mari frowns. “They’ve been together for a while. But I know she isn’t happy, and I don’t want to be the person that breaks their relationship up. Ugh. It’s just that - I didn’t ever think I’d be that person.”

“I see,” Even says, and before he’s able to get another word out, Mari interrupts him.

“I don’t want you to think that I’d ever do this sort of thing if I didn’t think there was a chance it was worth it - I mean, Christ. You know? But then - it’s Liesel. And she - I don’t know. It’s ridiculous. How am I to ask her to choose?”

Even pulls himself up slightly higher, his muscles straining in his left shoulder as he reaches probably farther than is recommended. The burn feels good. “Well,” he says finally. “I don’t think poorly of you, if you’re worried about that. I was literally in the same situation a couple of years ago.”

“You were?”

He nods, until he realises than from the angle he’s at, Mari can’t see him. “Yeah. I met Isak when I was dating Sonja.”

“Oh,” is all Mari says. She looks as though Even has never mentioned this, and he realises he probably hasn’t. He understands, for a moment, what she means about him not speaking to her. Like this, she meant.

So he goes: “I fucked up with Isak a lot during that time. I mean, not on purpose. But I was with Sonja, even though our relationship had been falling apart for a while, there was a lot of insecurity,” Even’s reaches the top of the rock wall. He holds himself there for a moment until Mari catches up before he continues. “Anyway, I kept telling Isak I wanted to be with him, but then I’d go back to Sonja because I wasn’t sure Isak would accept me for who I was.”

“How come?” Mari asks. Both of them start to descend slowly, together, the balls of their feet bouncing off the wall and propelling them lower. “I mean, why did you think he wouldn’t accept you?”

Even tries to figure out how he wants to word this. “Well, Isak had a pretty sad childhood, and it coloured his view on people with mental health disorders and mental illness in general. And then I had a manic episode while I was with him, which unfortunately escalated so much that both the police and Sonja got involved,” Even grimaces at the memory. “To make it even worse, I hadn’t told him I was bipolar prior to this, and he found out from Sonja. Who did me the huge favour of convincing Isak that I was only interested in him because I was mentally unwell, and there was no chance I could love him.”

His feet touch the ground. Mari lands next to him, and doesn’t even try to conceal her surprise. “Oh my God, Even. What a fucking mess.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “A mess indeed.”

“Poor Isak,” Mari murmurs, and it touches Even a little, his chest filling with warmth. “Well?”

“Well?”

“Well!” she repeats, indignant. “What happened after?!”

Even smiles, thinking of the week after, and the lead up to Christmas. “Well, Isak and I ended up together anyway. He told me that he didn’t care I was bipolar, either, because if I were to really choose him, he had already chosen me first. So.”

“I had no idea your relationship started like that,” Mari says finally. “That sounds so intense.”

“A lot of things were, back then,” Even nods. They start a different section of the wall, one which curves upwards rather than a direct ascend. They both strategize their climb in silence.

Even gathers what he wants to say. “Anyway. Maybe you should consider doing to same to Liesel. Ask her what she really wants. If she’s at all as wonderful as you have told me she is, then she will choose you.”

Mari looks intimidated by the prospect of this. “I’m not sure. I don’t even know if she considers herself bisexual - or if she’s out at all.”

“Yeah,” Even understands. “Like, Isak wasn’t even really out but he still asked me to choose. Told me if I really wanted to be with him, then I would be. The nice thing about sexuality is that you can figure it out along the way.”

After another lead climb, they descend and start to make their way towards the lockers. Even’s muscles are sore in the best way.

Mari sighs. “That’s pretty - brave of him. But just so we’re clear - this is the same Isak I met, running around without so much as a winter jacket in the middle of January?”

Even can’t help but laugh a little. “The very same.”

-

~ ~ TRI-SQUAD ~ ~

MIMZ 20:43 // _hei hei, ev and i are on the way back, should we grab dinner for us first? We’re gonna be passing remaaaaaa_

HEMROD 20:47 // _no, I got sushi earlier with Alex. But maybe some wine?_

HEMROD 20:51 // _also even, there’s a letter here for you_

MIMZ 20:51 // _hmmm. White or red?_

HEMROD 20:53 // _Defo red. Takk._

EVIII 21:00 // _I better not find this one “recycled by accident”_

HEMROD 21:02 // _nei, of course not_

  
-

[TORSDAG 21:21](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YJJFVfiS5aY)

Even finally opens the letter. It’s smaller than the rest, and lighter. He had left it in his desk drawer to immediately join Hemi and Mari for homemade sangria and dinner, which they ate out on the balcony and enjoyed the last remnants of sunshine. Hemi seemed sour most of the evening, which Even would have usually bugged her about until she relented and at least gave him one smile. Last night, however, he had been exhausted by his therapy and he had an idea about why she was in a bad mood. The letters, again. Isak, again. Even was tired of this. He did not want to bring it up. So he hadn’t.

Now, it’s 21:21, and Isak’s birthday is tomorrow, and it feels like a moment. Even sits at his desk and watches the lower light hovers just above his window sill, seeping into all the corners of his room. He likes it when everything is quiet like this. Even his brain feels quiet, not like a void, but a calm that he didn’t even consciously force upon himself. It just arrived like a tide, and encompassed him.

Even hopes Isak is still with the boys gallivanting around. There’s been no new updates about Berlin from either Magnus or Jonas. Even has checked a few times throughout the day.

He touches the corners of the envelope. He opens it and slides the letter out.

  
Dear Even,

The mushroom experience - such a weird fucking day. In a good way. I wasn't prepared for how much I would end up thinking about you. In a good way. I repeat, in a good way. I had realisation after realisation. I remembered all these amazing things about you, as if I had forgotten them somehow. I stopped feeling sad at once. I just was. And Life just was. And it was beautiful.

This one hit the hardest. I can't begin to tell you why - where to start first? I guess the shrooms were a part of it. I actually read this postcard while I was strung out and emotional from tripping all day. In the evening, after we'd returned from Tempelhofer Feld, I went to my room. I opened my drawer. Only Jonas remained and he sat outside with Martin. I could hear their laughter from my window. I pulled out the postcards until I found the next one.

I know she must have loved this one. I love it too. It’s the one from Vienna. I looked it up: it’s called the Kiss, the centerpiece of the Belvedere's Gustav Klimt collection. I hear it's really large in real life. I wonder what you felt, standing there before it. I wonder how it touched you. Did it touch you? Right down into your gut, like a worm wiggling up in there and promptly exploding into confetti?

The only time I can recall feeling this recently was when we stood in your drafty pale bedroom. That painting you have on the wall. We stood there before that - what was it - the french artist? I don't think I'll ever forget how I felt staring at it. It was then I realised I was in love with you. No, no: it was then I realised I was in love with you still. These feelings didn't die so much as they sunk low into my subconscious and fell asleep.

I hope I'm not making you sad by saying any of this. I'm telling you because I loved this postcard so much. I wrote my own response to it. But I want it to be - I was so high, I don't want it to count. Think of it more like my letter to you. We tripped for hours, and by the time I was sober I had let everyone know about this damn letter so I couldn't not send it. So I did. Look for the second envelope, there’s a letter and a postcard for you inside.

Remember, I'm not artist like you. Neither am I really a writer. But I thought how funny it is, when you're high like that, to find some things so important. Like nothing ever could reach that level of importance otherwise. Now I don't have it in me to throw it out. Fuck embarrassing. What is embarrassing to us anyway?

Isak.

 

Even smiles, fingers running down the imprints left on the pages. Isak’s slanted, neat writing, crammed onto one page. The run on sentences, where they trail off and he starts a new paragraph.

There is not a second letter, but perhaps it will come tomorrow. He rules out Hemi interfering on the basis that if she wanted to abscond with them completely she would have just taken both. But then he thinks: you never really know. He thinks of Isak: Sufjan crooning in the background, the room a reddish-brown in the late evening, the window pulling in a breeze. Maybe they’d become inspired and went for a walk, and Even imagines the trees must all seem like they’re breathing or something. Just the idea makes him smile. He wonders what was so important Isak had to write him. He’s not an artist, he’d warned Even. Yet he’d still sent it.

Even has dreams of what it could say.

-

FREDAG 10:58

“You will not believe me when I say this,” Tove’s voice is the first thing Even hears upon entering the store. He hurries behind the counter, eager to clock in and start his shift. He expects her to follow him, which she does.

“You finally figured out you can’t assume every girl who walks in here with a pixie cut has a ‘coming out’ story?” Even rolls his eyes. He doesn’t mean be irate, but he hardly slept the night before and subsequently overslept this morning, missing his usual morning routine and meditation. The entire day has since felt off.

Tove only rolls her eyes. Her casual homophobia used to be more problematic, Even reasons. He guesses it’s a slow process with her. “No,” she says sourly. “The cutest fucking guy came in yesterday. Loitered around for a while but didn’t ask any questions. I swear he kept looking at me because every time I turned - there he was. Finn was like, ‘you’re imagining things.’”

Even raises an eyebrow. “And Finn was right?”

“Maybe, except for in the afternoon, Finn told me he came in again,” Tove sounds entirely too satisfied for Even’s liking. Maybe this guy just likes coffee? He’s had tourists and regulars alike who have visited him more than once.

Even searches for his cup. He can’t find it until he pries open their dishwasher and finds it. He pulls it out, still hot. “Who used my cup?” he asks, frowning.

Tove pretends not to hear him. “I don’t think it’s so unreasonable he could be at least a little interested in me. I mean, first the leering, but then coming in a second time.”

This time Even does not hid his disbelief. “I don’t really see how you could have reached this conclusion because he came in twice. People do that because it’s Tim Wendelboe.”

Tove scoffs. “Rude,” she makes a face at him. “Let a girl live. You should have seen him. And then when I finally cracked the silence between us with a joke, he shut down completely and went all shy? I think he may have actually blushed, which I didn’t know was a thing men actually did - and like, who comes in twice and doesn’t at least crack a joke? I said something funny first. But he just went tomato and booked it.”

“A blush is just blood rushing under cheeks,” Even’s mouth is drawn in a thin line as he pours himself a cortado. “Do you know who used my cup?”

Tove seems irritated that Even does not share her level of enthusiasm for this customer crush. She rolls her eyes and stalks to the little employee corner. “You and that damn cup.”

They pass most of the shift in relative peace. Even limits himself to only two cups of coffee, even though he really feels the urge to drink more than that given how slow it seems to be today. The sun is obscured mostly by clouds, and around four, it starts to drizzle a little. He’s reading the schedule and the new Barista Beginners class Tim has him leading - the very first he’ll be in charge of. It’s exciting, if not a little intimidating.

He’s tucked behind the espresso machine, crouched over the notes he wants to use for the class when Tove launches a rolled up Chemex filter at his head from where she’s standing at the till. He’s out of view from customers, and he effectively glares at her when it bounces off the side of his head. “It’s him!”

The door chimes. Tove leans over the counter, an inviting smile (if not a little smug). She’s talking a mile a minute, asking him how his day is and what he would like to drink and if he’s enjoyed his week without giving him time to answer. It’s midway through Tove’s spiel about what kind of bean they just got in and the little joke she usually finishes with when Even hears a laugh that literally causes his heart to surge.

Then: “Okay? I’m not sure how that’s a coffee pun?”

Suddenly it’s beating so fast. Hummingbird fast.

He stands slowly, and he thinks it must look comical from a different angle: Even, slowly unfolding behind the bar with what he only imagines is a look of pure shock on his face; Tove leaning too far over the counter, lost in her flirtatious customer-service epithets, unaware of what is happening.

Isak looks like pure glory, and Even feels his arrival like a drawstring to his lungs, pulled taut. He breathes through his nose. His mouth is dry. Isak stands before him broad shouldered, with an uneven tan and an older, more restrained look to his face. Even thinks his hair is longer than January, because it curls around his ears in a cherubic fashion that nearly spoils him with affection.

“Halla,” Isak nods. He raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t wear my hat, so you don’t have to kick me out.”

Tove laughs, which only serves to irritate Even because she has no idea what they’re talking about. Instead he smiles, “Halla.”

His eyes are twinkling just slightly. “Right,” he says with a nonchalant shrug. “So, I’ll take whatever you recommend.”

Tove rings him up for a pour over, but Even ignores her recommendation and makes Isak a honey cardamom latte, something which he reserves usually only for himself when he’s feeling a particular sort of way. Isak waits over the bar, and says nothing, which Even is grateful for. The language of Isak’s body leaning over the counter already sets his nerves on edge, just trying to resist honing in on him and committing the way he looks to the memory - the leisurely posture, the small smile aimed at the ground, the humming of Tove hovering nearby.

“Here you go,” Even murmurs. He watches Isak’s face as he passes it to him. Isak is looking at his hand.

“Thanks,” Isak says. He sips it after a moment, and then looks up at Even, smiling that smile again. Like the sun finally breaking through a particularly dense cloud: the sight of his teeth strikes Even with ebullience and desire and surprise. There’s only ever one person who could render Even speechless like this.

“Shit, do you think I could get an extra napkin? This is very hot.”

Even doesn't know whether he’s serious. First because he’s grinning this goofy smile. Second it’s steamed to 62 degrees, like every single one of his drinks that he serves. But Isak is smiling in away that makes Even think he’s supposed to be in on the joke.

“Of course!” Tove gushes, handing him a stack. Even watches as he takes it. It’s truly an unnecessary amount of napkins. There is no plausible way Isak could use all of them.  
  
Isak goes to stand by the small coffee bar where Even can’t see him. He is unsure what to do with his hands. He needs to purge the shot he just pulled, but he can’t find the momentum to move. It feels as if everything has slowed down.

“Here, I don’t need this one,” Isak returns. Instead of going back to the register, he hands it over to Even. Even takes the singular, nearly used napkin back with bemusement. Then, like a flood, it reminds him of when they met in the toilets during the first Kosegruppa meeting. Even grins.

“Thanks again,” with a smile, Isak leaves. Even is barely able to catch a gratuitous glance at his parting back before someone else enters. At least Even is saved - literally - by bell ringing on the door from hearing Tove recount the entire interaction to him. He is barely able to process it.

Fuck, he looks so good. Even feels the butterflies again. He can’t stop the same thought from cycling again and again in his brain, his stomach, down to his feet.

When he looks down at the napkin, Isak has hastily scribbled his new number on the edge of one of the napkins. Smooth, Even thinks. So fucking smooth.

He folds up the napkin and tucks it into his pocket. The cafe stays busy the rest of the evening, until close. Tove and he don’t find a moment to chat.

-

  
[FREDAG 18:55](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qXVWwJaF6pc)

It’s just after close when Even realises that he completely forgot it’s Isak’s birthday. If he wasn’t so irritated with himself for forgetting a day he literally was just thinking about yesterday, he would laugh. Because of course Isak would show up looking for Even on the day he turned twenty-one.

He sits on a bench in Sofienbergparken next to a group of Daphne bushes, which emit a smell so intoxicating in their sweetness that it causes him to inhale sharply every so often.

Without giving himself enough time to hesitate, Even inputs the number as its scribbled on the corner. Then he takes a further moment to fold it neatly back into his jean jacket pocket for safe keeping.

Til +47 124 43 0877 19:02 // _Happy birthday. And welcome back._

Even sits on the bench and stares down at his phone, waiting for it vibrate. A slight breeze picks up, wafting the Daphnes through the park. Couples and families stroll aimlessly through the park, where the pink flowers hang low from the trees, mixed with flush green foliage. It feels so inexplicably like summer: the warm air, the soft wind, the smell of flowers, and the sun present in the sky still, unwavering. The remnants of rain have settled into a supple, still evening. It makes Even feel so full of wonder, and hope, and anxiety.

+47 124 43 0877 19:08 // _Hei :D I was hoping you’d message me_  
+47 124 43 0877 19:09 // _The boys are taking me out tonight. Do u work tomorrow? Can we meet?_

Even adds the phone number into his phone under Isak. He edits the previous contact under Isak’s name to IsakBerlin.

Til Isak 19:11 // _I’m free as can be_

Isak 19:12 // _Great, what about 14:00? There’s somewhere I gotta go in the morning but then I can come to yours if you want?_

Even nearly types, yes, of course, before he pauses. He imagines what it would look like if Isak came to the door just as Hemi was leaving for work - was it at two that her shift started? He’s being paranoid, but the idea of having to explain what exactly is going on between him and Isak, and the resulting twin faces of thinly contained dread that is likely to ensue fills him with trepidation. His only recurring thought to that idea is AVOID, flashing in capital letters. He’ll save that conversation for when it’s necessary.

Even combats his inner dialogue for another moment: tell them now and save the impending fall out. Or: make your own decisions and save your energy trying to get their approval. Or: Tell them - they only want what’s best for you, it makes sense they’re so concerned about Isak. Or: What do they know? And who are they, Even, your keepers?

Finally, he types out:

Til Isak 19:15 // _I’ll probably be out anyway by then. Where’s a good place to meet you?_

He takes another deep inhale of perfumed air and thinks of the last time Isak and he shared a summer. It all felt so long ago, and then again, like no time has passed at all.

There’s only a minute before Isak responds.

Isak 19:16 // _Okiiii, meet me near Frogner Plass? Take the 12. OG times._

Even remembers the first time he ever spotted Isak on the 12 on their way to Nissen. The boy from the courtyard, his brain sounded off in glee. They had been travelling in the same carriage, Isak sitting next to the window, his cheek smashed up against his fist as he stared at the city passing him by. He’d been wearing a snapback and a red hoodie, because it was just shy of being cold. He made no notice of Even, even though Even had been just about drilling holes into the side of his face the entire ride. He made no notice of anything around him. That had been the first time Even had caught Isak lost in thought.

Three days later, Even made himself known on the train. He couldn’t help but test fate: Isak walked right up and stood next to him, after all. He remembers how Isak looked up in surprise; immediately he had looked back down. Only the crescents of long lashes remained visible. Then Isak did the most delightful thing Even had ever experienced: he turned a satisfying shade of pink, the wings of his cheeks blooming to nearly his ears. His general consensus of that day riding the 12, is that if Isak hadn’t possessed such a visible tell, Even’s unsure as to whether he would have continued to press on so ardently. But he couldn’t help it. He needed to see how many reactions he could entice. It felt like a promise between them.

The first week of school he was merely the boy in the courtyard. By the second week he had a name, and Even constructed an image of second year Isak Valtersen, full of small smirks and confidence. Truthfully, he had no idea who he was talking to. His idealisations were so one-dimensional of Isak back then; little more than a feeling of I need to know who this is. He swelled in a heady mixture of intrigue, attraction, curiosity, and courage.

Then Isak came over to his house, and everything changed again.

He remembers that day vividly. Riding the 12. The First Blush. Listening to Illmatic, and sitting on the windowsill, and feeling Isak’s gaze on him when he thought Even wasn’t looking. And then catching him looking, and looking right back. God, they’d been so fucking young. And clueless. And hopeful.

And now.

Another text interrupts Even’s thoughts.

Isak 19:20 // _super important for jonas to throw this party for me or whatever. We’re already pre-gaming. soooo apologies if u get a text from me later. I’ve been embarrassing enough already_

Til Isak 19:20 // _We don’t get embarrassed, remember?_

Isak 19:21 // _< 3_

When Even walks home through the park, he hardly fights to keep the smile off his face.

-

LØRDAG 13:57

Even’s at Frogner plass before two, and he leans against a short stone wall before the entrance of Frognerparken. It’s a perfect position across from the station to wait, and he tries not to feel like he’s just waiting until he can catch a glimpse of Isak. That is exactly what he’s doing, regardless, and every person who crosses his vicinity from the direction of the tram falls under his scrutiny.

He’s trying not to be too nervous. Relax Even, he keeps telling himself. Let those thoughts go. It’s going to be fine.

The longer he stands there, the more Even attempts to centre himself. But it’s difficult, with all these different scenarios playing in his head. He imagines the ways it could look: along the neighbourhood street with the rows of stately homes? In the barren field, amongst the shorn grass? Or under a sunlight twice as strong, almost boastful. If he could play a song, what song would be playing?

He tries to relax. Uncrosses his arms.

Suddenly Isak is in his periphery, from his left, walking from a side street opposite the tram too, so Even never would have seen him anyway. He’s wearing a white t shirt and a small smile, his hair parted away from his eyes. When he catches Even’s gaze, he does not look away.

He’s got a brown leather bag slung over one shoulder. It’s strange to see Isak’s bare arms during the light of day, Even thinks. It’s been a while. He can’t help but drink in the darker flush, the evidence of sun on his skin. Isak, in the soft afternoon light peeking through the clouds. There’s the beginnings of a smile threatening to split his face in half if Isak so much as quivers his lip. Even feels a stone drop in his stomach. Oh, he thinks, and he cannot think anymore, only stare as Isak moves closer. Finally he comes to a stop in front of Even.

Even finds his breath.

Isak says, “Halla,” with a funny little wave of his arm.

Even feels himself slip back to Earth. He smiles, eyes Isak’s lack of sweater. “Halla. Brave?”

Isak shrugs goodnaturedly. He looks up towards the threat of dark clouds moving to obscure more of sun. “More like hopeful, I guess.”

“Is it very warm in Berlin already?” Even asks. Isak slips ahead, obviously leading the way. Even obliges. They go into the park.

“Yeah, it’s really nice right now,” Isak affirms with Even falls in stride with him. He points to Even’s face. “Since when do you need these?”

Even pulls the glasses off his face without a second thought. “Oh, they’re super slight. I don’t really need them except in the darkroom. I was there this morning and it helps me see up close better when there’s no light.”

“The darkroom, huh?” Isak raises an eyebrow. “You working on a project? Are there studios open during the summer? That’s nice.”

“Kind of. Hedda helps run Chateau Neuf and she likes me, so I’ve kinda set up there,” Even tells him. He looks away, at the swell of trees they’re now walking through. Taking a break from looking at Isak. “She lets me leave my work out during the week so long as it’s not overbooked and she needs the space back.”

Even looks back. Isak is smirking. “Okay, but it’s Saturday.”

“Well, let’s just say what she doesn’t know doesn’t hurt her.”

This pulls a laugh out of Isak. “Sure, of course. You look like a nerd.”

“What! These are [Tart Arnel’s](http://dieworkwear.com/post/10444294633/tart-relaunching-a-legend) and I spent forever hunting them down on Ebay. I don’t expect you to understand what a spectacular find these are,” Even teases. Isak just rolls his eyes, but his smile remains transfixed on his mouth.

“Oh, I’m well aware that I don’t understand your dedication finding to used old stuff,” Isak teases him, a light in his eyes. “You like to live above the trend, don't you?”

“More like a rebel without a cause,” he winks, and it brings a small laugh bubbling out of Isak. “And amongst all your shit talking, I think I’m right in saying deep down you like it.”

It only serves to wedge Isak’s smile wider. “Perhaps.”

Even feels his stomach flip. They’re crossing over the bridge towards the central gardens now, and ahead of them lie a dozen rose gardens, which Even knew existed already but - now it catches his breath. Red roses lining up the horizon as far as Even can see.

Isak’s looking over the water, and looking at Even all at once. Even stops and Isak continues to walk in front of him, meandering a little, until there he has it: Isak against a backdrop of red.

Where's his camera when he really needs it? He should have known to bring it. He’s always creating spectacles out of Isak. How else is he supposed to relieve this build up, this tension that surges in him whenever they’re together?

“Even,” Isak peeks over his shoulder. His voice is so smooth it feels like it glides. “Are you lost in thought over there?”

Even only smiles. Tries not to show how affected he is. “Does it feel strange I’m not saying that to you for once?”

Isak smiles. They’re standing in the middle of the bridge. Dark green statues line either side of them, mystifying and ancient looking. Isak looks up at Even through his lashes again. A little shy. But then he reaches over, fingers jabbing gently into Even’s arm. From afar, it’s barely anything more than teasing - but there’s an undercurrent of hey. _Hey you_.

The second time Isak does it, Even catches his hand and brings it up between them. Keeps it. Isak turns his palm so they’re holding hands. His eyes are shining. Then he lets go.

Even lets his hand fall. It feels natural. “It’s good to see you again.”

“You, too,” Isak says. “I brought food to have in the park. I hope you didn’t eat already. Otherwise you’re going to be sitting there while I take out two sandwiches.”

“You made sandwiches? Jeez, I didn’t realise you cooked now,” Even laughs.

Isak just sticks his tongue out. “I’m only offended because you know that making sandwiches is not the same thing as cooking. And anyway, I’ve had to survive somehow, haven’t I? These are from a shop near Jonas’ apartment -”

“Is that where you’re staying?”  
  
Isak nods. “Wednesday I officially move in for the summer. His roommate Hans is going to Torino for some [political retreat](https://socialistrevolution.org/imt-world-school-celebrating-the-legacy-of-1917).”

Even chuckles. For a while they just stroll through the park, away from the gardens and the squares of figures. He follows Isak off the pavement and into the grass where there is no trail. They descend the slight knoll towards the lake where the bridge resides over down around the bend. Trees hang lower, their leaves small and skimming the sides of Even's cheeks. Through the brush reveals a quiet spot on the water, just enough sunlight reflecting off the grass there. It’s beautiful and still except for the breeze, the water. Even looks down. There’s a freckle on the back of Isak’s arm that he can’t quite remember being there last time.

Isak looks at Even and then goes to sit. The sliver of sun still shining illuminates the area around then before the treeline begins. Isak produces the sandwiches a moment later, and some water and fruit. It’s very well-rounded all things considered.

For a moment there’s only chewing. Then, Even asks, “How many days have you been back?”

“Just since Thursday,” Isak answers. “I came back with the boys, actually. We all went through to Amsterdam for a couple nights because my sublet showed up in Berlin before I was ready to go to Oslo. Ended up that Hans left later than planned for Italy, so I’m on Eskild’s sofa until then.”

“I see,” Even says, and wonders if Eskild’s is the closest thing Isak has to a home base. It seems like a reach, until Even remembers: There is no childhood home here. No apartment with his parents still residing in it. There are no brothers or sisters or aunts who Isak can default to either. Even feels a slight wash of shame when he realises how much he always just relies on his parents to be there - to help him when he needs it, with a roof or a meal or an allowance if he asked for it.

He used to have these kind of reflections all the time when he and Isak moved in together. Where did he go when they fought and he needed some time to cool down? Even asked himself once. Then a sad voice reminded him: nowhere, really.

“Has it been chill staying with Eskild?”

Isak grins, “Ja, he’s ridiculous. Still so annoying sometimes. Noora just moved out again but she’s practically always there after her work. So it’s basically the same, except the apartment is nicer and more decorated than the Kollektiv. She came over to watch Queer Eye both evenings, and because I’m in the living room, I end up in between them.”

Even’s about to tease him about it - but Isak looks down at the grass and smiles, a devastating, quiet smile that makes Even lose the words out of his mouth before he’s able to even open it.

Without looking up, Isak admits, “I’ve missed you.”

Even feels something in his chest constrict. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I missed you too.”

Isak looks over the water then. “What I said in the letter. About. Or what I said before, when I left. About - I just. What if we did this, like - tried to figure this out and maybe - took it slow?” he doesn’t so much as peek at Even. Like he’s trying to saying what he really has to say first. “I mean, we could - take our time, this time. Feel it all out. What do you think?”

Even hears what Isak is asking of him, and then he considers what he is saying underneath. Even imagines his whisper: this is fragile. Let’s not break it.

Isak is riding heavily on this: Even can suddenly feel the weight. It’s almost too much for him to handle, how deep this runs. Isak’s nerves permeate everything, carried in the taut line of his spine.

Finally Isak looks at him, and it is only then that Even nods. He's not sure what Isak means exactly but he nods anyway. “Works for me.”  
  
Isak looks back towards the water, so Even runs his fingers up his back, feeling each knob of his vertebrae. Even finishes his tour by cupping the nape of Isak’s neck, threading his fingers through the little curls there. Isak's head hangs behind his shoulders, and from this angle Even catches the flutter of his lashes as he presses into his back. By the time he makes it to his neck, his hand is large enough that if he moved his thumb, he could feel Isak’s pulse, the soft skin on the side of his neck.

“How have you been, lately?” Even asks. He goes to pick up his sandwich, sitting forgotten next to him. “How are you feeling?”

“Less depressed,” is what Isak finally settles on. Now he does look at Even, his shyness abiding. Then he shrugs one shoulder. “I am out of the ‘taking it day by day’ phase.”

“Well, that’s good, at least,” Even nods. Isak purses his lips for a moment.

“I guess,” he allows. “There are some days where I think about her a lot, but I’m not dwelling as much. I swear February and March were just non-stop and all I wanted to do was sleep. But of course I couldn’t sleep.”

Right. “I struggle with that balance. It’s either too little or too much.”

Isak nods like he knows, and he does, Even thinks. It tickles him, to be around someone who knows him so well, because it also feels so new, and exciting. There’s a tension building between them, the longer they sit together, where Even can’t help but drink Isak in. Everything he says, the way he blinks, the slope of his nose from Even’s vantage point. It borders on ridiculous how lovely he looks in this light, outfitted by the sound of the lake trickling beside them.

Even feels the breeze pick up. “Is it very difficult being back this time?”

“Nothing could be as difficult as last time, I think,” Isak shakes his head. “But yeah, I’m not sure it’s ever going to be too easy. With everything that’s happened.”

 _Everything I’ve lost_ goes unspoken. Even feels a pang in his gut, sorrow and ache.

“But how nice it is to be here in the summer,” Isak continues, and this time he smiles, just the tips of his two front teeth peeking through. “I’ve missed Norway, I fucking admit it. I want to hike, goddammit. I want to speak Norwegian for once.”

“Oh, what’s this now?” Even teases. “Being trilingual now too much of a burden to bear?”

“You have no idea,” Isak rolls his eyes. “It’s the German that becomes tiring after a while. You must be so precise and there are a lot of different ways to describe something. One can never be too perfect, as people happily remind me. Though Berliners can be a bit rude too.”

“But the Americans don’t seem to notice an accent?”

Isak snorts, “No, they’re amazed it’s not my first language. Which has always baffled me because I certainly don’t sound like I’m American. Or British, _God_. It used to be funny, but after a while it just became annoying. Because of course my English is good. Many people speak good English with relatively little issue.”

“Yes, yes, I understand, but now I’m just feeling insecure because my English could certainly use some work. Here you are fooling the Americans.”

“Even,” Isak is sassing him, “don’t be dramatic. Your entire film library is essentially in English, and you do just fine. Probably better than fine.”

“That’s true. But I’ll admit I do use the subtitles - because...who doesn’t like the soft option?” He wiggles his eyebrows. “What movies have you been watching then, anyway?” Even picks up a grape and tosses at Isak. It bounces off his shoulder, which he raises his shoots him a look, as if to say, _nice segue_.

Regardless he says, “I just saw [Lola](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uz2-D4lY2qg), which is set in Berlin. I think you would really like the um, direction or whatever. It’s funky. _Even_ -funky. I think you’d like it.”

Even’s probably heard of Lola at some point, but he’s never seen it. He feels a pleasant flip of his nerves at the idea of ‘Even-funky’ and what it requires. “You’ll have to show me.”

“I’d rather watch a different film with you,” Isak becomes a little reserved about this. “It’s actually a film Jonas showed me first. But I want to watch it again with you.”

“Well you’ve certainly peaked my curiosity now,” Even says. “What’s it called?”

Isak looks like he’s unsure if he wants to reveal it, in case Even has already seen it. “[Pride](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=khbz4ncVY9o),” he murmurs finally. “Have you heard of it?”

He hasn’t. Even shake his head.

Isak nods, evidently relieved. So it’s one of these films, then. “It’s about the [1982 miners’ strike.](https://museum.wales/media/7598/Glo-Strike.pdf) In the UK. Jonas did a whole class on it, pretty much, and so we watched it. Don’t look it up.”

Even laughs a little. What strike in England? He’s not sure it’s something he’d necessarily stumble upon on his own. “I won’t look it up,” Even promises. “Not even the [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/UK_miners%27_strike_\(1984%E2%80%9385\)) page about the strike either.”

“No, not that either. Don’t spoil it for yourself,” Isak wags his finger at Even. Then he finds the grape in the grass and pops it into his mouth. Even watches as his teeth break into it, the way it bobs inside his cheek before Isak swallows.

There’s the ghost of a smile on his face. Then, to Even’s inner delight, a light pink blush spreads over the bridge of Isak’s nose. It’s all the incentive Even needs.

“Come here,” he says. It comes out much more gentle than he means, and barely cuts through the air between them. Isak moves towards him, until he can feel the hot exhale of his breath. Even leans in, brushing his nose against the underside of Isak’s, his heart beating in his ears. Isak tips his head back, presenting his mouth like a delicacy, and Even catches his upper lip, uses his kiss to draw him ever closer.

Isak kisses him back, his hand reaching up to cup Even’s cheek and rooting them there. So this is what they’re doing, kissing underneath the trees on the river. It’s a little cold. Even doesn’t care. Even can only think of Isak’s lips and what they are doing to him. How they feel. And when he bites down a little, just a nibble, really - the sound that comes from Isak’s throat is halfway between demure and strangled. Something in his stomach flips: he can still pull the same reactions. It pleases him more than he thought it would.

They roll in the grass and make out, taking their time. Even peppers Isak with many small kisses, breaking to look down at the minute details of his face, to smell his cheeks, to drag his nose along the line of Isak’s brow, to kiss his hairline. To feel Isak’s eyelashes flutter against his skin in return. There is no urgency, no evidence of time passing at all. Only the water, the grass, and them, together.

Isak only pulls apart when neither can ignore the heavy droplets of rain falling any longer. They part with swollen lips, Isak’s mouth a perfect red. Pretty soon they’re drenched through their clothes, and only then does Isak roll away and pull the remnants of their lunch into his bag, wet little strands of hair sticking to his forehead.

When they finally make their way to the main walkways through the park, they find it nearly empty. The rain is coming down harder now, hitting Even soundly in the face. The sky is a strange, atmospheric mixture of warm humidity and cold rain, the sky a murky orange-grey.

“Where did you go this morning?” it just occurs to Even.

Isak blinks once, rain catching on his cupid’s bow. He licks it subconsciously. “I went to go see my mother.”

Even tries not to miss a beat. “And?”

“Someone already laid out fresh flowers,” Isak narrows his eyes. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

Something large and warm fills Even when he shakes his head no. “It wasn’t,” he assures Isak. When he doesn’t look convinced he adds, “Swear. I really did go to the darkroom.”

Isak nods. “Well, she had fresh flowers. And it was okay, actually. Only a little harrowing.”

Even pulls him close, folding him under his arm. He presses his mouth into Isak’s temple when Isak leans into him, closer still. Allowing himself to be cuddled as they walk through arrays of statues.

It feels surreal, post-apocalyptic: the tangerine sky streaked with dark storm clouds, the lurid damp heat. The sweet smell of concrete flooding in June. Isak and he walking through a barren park, filled with unmoving figures all staring down at them.

Isak’s wet skin under his mouth, though. Make no mistake, Even thinks to himself. That’s real.

-

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That is a real link to a real Marxist retreat that happened. I know because my partner went, lol. 
> 
> Also, Isak misquotes the 1982 strike - its actually the 1984 miner's strike, which is a very interesting topic, in part due to the relentless support by women showing solidarity and the historical treatment that part of history has received. Anyway, I digress on that for now. 
> 
> Thank you so much again. alt er love.


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are obviously several references throughout. One of them I have manipulated a little: In the Dag Alveng gallery (which, if this was posted in real time, that exhibition has unfortunately passed) I write that two pieces of work are created together in a diptych, in reality, the artist has them stand alone. However, for the sake of the story, the reactions I wanted to evoke worked best in this way. 
> 
> As always, thank you again for all the lovely comments and kudos. You are all the best. I will also be honest and say I definitely have to add at least one more chapter I believe, totalling in 5. Because I simply can't get enough of Even. And there's still so much to divulge in this universe, I suppose. 
> 
> All mistakes are my own.

-

SØNDAG 07:35

Taking it slow looks like this:

Isak and Even walked back through the rain to Eskild’s apartment, where blessedly no one was home on an early Saturday evening. They kissed in the doorway. Then Isak pulled - gently - on Even’s hand to the bathroom. They were both itchy and damp, and Isak gave him a towel to use and told him he could use whatever he found, because that was what he was doing.

Isak told Even to leave his clothes outside the door and he’ll dry them for him. Without another word he left Even standing in front of the sink. Even had taken one long look at himself in the mirror, a print of a Matisse hanging in a bamboo frame unmissable behind him. He stared at himself and the painting until he started to recognise the little dust motes in the air where they hit the light.

When Even emerged to find his own clothes, still warm and neatly folded, he dressed without thinking about his body, or how outside, the sky had become a disturbing puce colour. The rain ceased. Moment over.

They cooked together, this time pasta. Even mostly hung around and let little tidbits of information about this or that fall between then. A film here; a book he read there. He kissed Isak at the kitchen counter; his hair curly and floppy against his forehead and it tickled Even’s forehead ever so slightly. His green eyes dazzled, and dazzling Even right back, as he twirled noodles around his fork.

Then Even had left. They had said goodnight: _Goodnight, Even._

_Good night, Isak._

_I’ll see you soon, won’t I?_

_Yes, yes you will._

Like the curtains drawing after the final act, little else of consequence happened that evening. Even had gone home. In the dark, he spread out on top of his duvet for hours and stared at the clouds pull in closer, until it rained again, until it started to thunder.

Taking it slow looks like this:

“Tadasana…” he murmurs to himself, breathing in through his nose and filling his diaphragm. Out through his mouth. Even closes his eyes. He stands on the his yoga mat, the house hushed and still as he would expect it to be on a Sunday morning. Even his mind feels a little feeble from waking so early. He moves into Urdhva Hastasana.

After he does his salutations three times, Even thinks he’s still energetic enough that a run might be necessary, but when he stares out his balcony there is nothing enticing about rushing the rest of his morning. He sips his tea half buried under a blanket and watches Friends with the sound off. Sometimes, it’s also necessary to be still.

At nine, he showers and feels his day materialise in front of him. The fold in which Even feels alone in the universe has smoothed out, and now he can feel the rest of the world impending around him. His moment has passed. The hours speak for themselves. He’s not sure he’s even been able to articulate this feeling to just anyone.

The romantic flush of early morning light has since turned to a gray overcast filling all the corners of Even’s brain with resignation. Temptation beckons him back to bed where he can hide in his moment longer, away from everything.

Instead he texts his mother:

Til MAMMA B 09:38 // I’m leaving now. Need a coffee?

In his room, he finds his Blade Runner jumper shoved awkwardly in the back of his closet. It was a thrifted sweatshirt he’d found digging around at shop with Sonja when he was seventeen that’s somehow kept. It’s worn in the elbows and threadbare near the collar, but between the tacky turquoise [John Alvin](http://johnalvinart.com/about-john-alvin/bladerunner-2/) rendering and borderline offensive colour he couldn’t truly give it away.

He holds it in front of him. Is today a Blade Runner kind of day? He thinks of curling up and watching the movie for the hundredth time, and hoping it would rain. It’s finally June and Even’s wishing for rain. He frowns inwardly at himself. What is this, he thinks. He can feel the frustration well inside him, laced in every thought. He slips it over his head.

MAMMA B 09:43 // Nei, we’ve got it!

Til MAMMA B 09:43 // okay, if you say so. See you soon

On the tram he listens to a [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WQYsGWh_vpE) he hasn’t heard for a long time. He tries to will away the edges of moroseness. He watches as the neighbourhoods become increasingly familiar until his stop arrives, and then he steps out into the quiet cosy street he grew up, counting down each doorstep until his mother’s door is the next one.

He pulls his hood off just before she answers the door, because Even knows that his mother is sensitive to any outward display of his mood. Her eagerness to read him can be a little tiresome. He thinks: you’re just in a bad mood, but then he shakes that thought off too.

Stop thinking about it. Be present, Even. Levy the stones in your chest.

When his mother answers the door, her hair is pulled away from her face, and in the light Even can see touches of gray near her temples he hadn’t noticed before. He pulls his headphones out and smiles at her.

“Hei,” she leans in to hug him. Sometimes when he hasn’t seen her in a few weeks Even has to remind himself how much taller he is. “How was your week?”

“Fine,” he shrugs off his bag. “I’ve been just working, doing a little project, but not really a lot.”

“Good,” his mother has made soft baked eggs and pancakes. The kitchen smells like it always does, and that eases Even into the seat across from her. They chat for a while - his father noticeably absent from both the table and the conversation, and it makes Even wonder if that is his mother’s doing. Is she phasing him out of picture like this, brunch by brunch on purpose? Or is he overthinking it? Surely his mother supposes an abrupt change would startle Even, so therefore she just edges his father out until he notices it only in hindsight. He looks around at the photos of the wall. They’re all still there.

His mother isn’t really the mastermind behind grandiose plans, though her attention to detail has improved rapidly since Even was diagnosed. Even reasons with himself: she may be more organised, but she would hardly move Pappa out of the family home without saying something.

Even doesn’t even know if their marriage is in any danger anyway.

He should ask: Is everything okay, with you and pappa? Has he been working a lot, or ….?

Instead, when he’s able to find a successful opening in the lulls between eating and talking, Even asks: “Do you remember Isak?”

She sets down her fork after a moment, just staring at Even. At first he thinks: You know you do. Then he gauges her, and thinks: I won’t give anything away until you answer.

“Yes,” Mamma says, nodding. Her tone drawing upon beige neutrality. “Of course.”

“I’ve been thinking about him lately,” Even admits a partial truth. When his mother raises her eyebrows, he amends, “I’m doing this project, right now. And it’s reminded me of him.”

“Oh?” Mamma prods. “What is the project about?”

“A lot of things - it’s based off this book of poetry, [Autobiography of Red](https://cpb-us-w2.wpmucdn.com/portfolio.newschool.edu/dist/9/2740/files/2014/11/autobiography-of-red-26ubyy4.pdf) by Anne Carson. Not based but - yeah, inspired by, I guess.”

“I’ve not heard of her,” Mamma shakes her head. “Is she good?”

Even nods, and then shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe you’d like her. But probably not,” he admits honestly.

He could explain to his mother why ‘good’ is a difficult way to measure poetry. Instead he says, “I’m looking at red and it’s associations, and contrasting it with - my associations of red. So it’s like my autobiography of red, but different.”

“I see,” she pours herself another cup of coffee. Even had brought her cold brew he’d had sitting at the flat, and he watched as she poured cream into it, the way it trickled, heavy, as it mixed with the coffee. “Sounds interesting.”

“Thanks,” he finishes the last of his egg. “Anyway, I was thinking about the colour red and love.”

She gazes at him. “Ah,” in that lofty, maternal way of hers. “I see where this is going.”

“No,” Even shakes his head, already ahead of her. “I mean, not just that. I started thinking about love, and the difference between love and care.”

When his mother doesn’t say anything, Even takes this as her invitation to elaborate. She picks up her fork to continue eating, reaching between them for the little dish of sour cream. A staple of their table for as long as Even remembers. Suddenly he knows what he wants to say.

“Like, care as a form of being beloved. You know? That’s not the same thing about being in love. Being in love to me is red. But being cared for? I don’t see red at all,” Even cocks his head. “Do I make any sense? Or have I lost you somewhere?”

“No, no, I know what you are saying,” Mamma smiles. “It’s true. There are many different kinds of love. All of them are pretty important.”

“Very important,” Even nods. He feels a bubble of excitement well in him at her understanding. She is his mother, after all. “Crucial, even. And that’s why I thought about Isak.”

She nods. “Right. Isak. What were your thoughts about him?”

“Well, I don’t remember how much I told you, back then,” Even hedges with only a little unease. His mother wasn’t too fond of that period of time, largely because she hadn’t agreed that Even need to move out at nineteen, while still in school, nor did she truly understand why Isak had left without him for Berlin. But her vision was shortsighted, and parental, after all.

“That you were in love with Isak?” she guesses. “I think I knew that.”

He smiles; Mamma winks teasingly in return. For a second he thinks of what they must look like in at their small kitchen table, a newspaper folded between them, the white walls reflecting a morning brighter than it actually is.

She remains patient. Even says, “No, about - I’m sorry. Let me reintroduce this whole topic again. During the semester, Mari and I were speaking about a [feminist principle](https://caringlabor.wordpress.com/2010/08/11/patricia-hill-collins-work-family-and-black-womens-oppression/) ‘[Ethic of Care](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ethics_of_care)’ and at the same time I started to work on this project, at least in its first phase, about love. I thought I understood it,” Even ruminates. “But I don’t. I didn’t, I mean.”

“What did you understand, then?”

“I understood love to be the answer to everything. That if you could fall in love then things would just work out,” Even says first. He looks down at his half filled cup of coffee. “When I would think about love, I understood it as a compromise of self. A series of specific acts, with a specific person, resulting in a specific self. I understood romantic love to be at the top of the pyramid, because it feels like it should be the most important. I mean, to me, falling in love was the singular most important act a human being could do. Because when you’re in love you feel like you can do anything, solve anything.”

“Romantic love is exciting,” his mother adds. “But it is not everything. It certainly won’t save a relationship single handedly.”

“That’s what I realised too. So my love pyramid isn’t really a pyramid at all, but more like a rotating Venn diagram. Because being in love is just not enough. Not without care. And care is different. There needs to be a reciprocation of care involved. Like love understood as a promise to consistency. Or, better yet: a responsibility. ‘I love you’ therefore I accept this responsibility to also care for you. And you accept that you will be loved by me, and accept my care. So being together is falling in love - but not in its entirety. But then I had a question about care.”

He takes a long pull off his coffee and continues. “I thought to myself, how does one know what care is? We certainly don’t know what falling in love is before it happens. We are all in the dark there. But some people - and this is what Mari was trying to explain, at least in terms of providing adequately paid care work and how we can measure care - was that care is often a learned trait. You learn it through socialisation, through family. By being cared for first.”

“Oh, of course,” she nods. “You used to throw your hands up at my face when you wanted a kiss from a couple months old. Your parents teach you compassion and trust and all those things through example.”

“Yes, exactly,” he nods with a note of excitement. “But then there are those parents who don’t.”

“ _Ah_ ,” recognition twinkles in his mother’s eyes. She smiles at him. “And this reminds you of Isak?”

“Yes,” Even turns somber then. He looks down at their finished breakfast. For a brief moment he tries to imagine what it would be like to never have this. The safe expectation of breakfast on a Sunday. “Yes, it does.”

“How so?” his mother’s voice has turned soft. He has her full attention.

“You know when we were together he never wanted to come over? Not because he didn’t like you or pappa. I think it was because he liked you both so much. It made him uncomfortable how caring you were. Towards him.”

He exhales, realising how much he had been speaking. Mamma sits back in her chair, digesting what he’s said to her. Her face is drawn up in thought. She shifts.

“I think I see what you mean,” she finally says. “It makes me sad to hear that. I always thought he was just - I don’t know. Remember that time Pappa and I went to Sognefjord and we asked you to come down for the week - ”

Even grimaces. “Oh, _I_ remember,” because he does. “It had turned into this huge argument. And I got so upset because I felt he was being so stubborn and ungrateful. I used to feel so clueless as to why he would become so resistant to anyone just trying to be nice and help him out. I thought it was a masculinity thing. But what I didn’t understand was that he was uncomfortable with feeling cared for. Like he thought it meant that I thought he couldn’t take care of himself.”

“That sounds like someone I know,” she chides him gently.

Even pauses, caught out. “Well, yes. That’s true. It’s actually so true, because the number one thing we would argue about was how much we worried about each other,” Even swallows. “Because we both felt inferior by being the object of that worry. And it was because we didn’t understand who we were yet, and everything felt insecure.”

“Yes, well,” his mother sighs heavily, “We don’t often reveal ourselves, when we don’t actually know what there is to reveal yet.”

Even nods. He knew there would be a point in the conversation where his mother would say something which would encapsulate everything he was trying to say, and with a surge in his heart, he nods, firmly. “That is exactly what I think too.”

They sit in their thoughts for a moment. The quiet is not unkind. Then Even clears his throat. “Anyway, the point is actually about the project.”

“Right!”

“There are many forms of love,” Even continues. He feels a little bit achy now. Catharsis charges through him. “Many forms of love, besides romantic love. Platonic and familial and altruistic. So my project is going to centre on the _Misinterpretation_ of Red. What I think versus what it is. Fact versus fiction. Real versus not real. Love versus care. Red versus red.”

“That sounds very interesting. I can’t wait to see it,” Mamma smiles at him. “You always think about your art so thoroughly Even, I sometimes am taken aback. In a good way: how have I created such an introspective individual? It reminds me of when we’d used to go and pick up leaves during the fall and you’d find about twenty red and yellow ones that you wanted to keep, and then you’d go and press them into books. After you’d write these creative little stories of how they could have ended up from the tree all the way to your bookshelf and present them at dinner. Remember that? I remember that time so well, when you were little. Shall we go for a walk, anyway?”

“No, I don’t really remember, but yes, let’s go for a walk,” Even says. He starts to get up, but then he thinks: wait. “Mamma. Can I just say thank you for always being there? For being my mamma. And for teaching me how to care.”

Mamma’s cheeks flush a little, and Even thinks, how beautiful she looks right now; how beautiful the way she looks at me. I want to look at my own child like that someday.

They walk at leisure through Bjølsenparken, where there are no red or yellow leaves to collect. Even tells her stories anyway. His mother’s smile does not leave her face.

-

SCENE:

[A METRONOME SWINGS]

[SOMEWHERE, ‘[WHAT’ll I DO](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rgOzTUWglmA)’ BY IRVING BERLIN IS PLAYING THROUGH AN OPEN WINDOW NEARBY.]

[SHOT OF A WINDOW IN A DARK ROOM. THROUGH THE WINDOW THERE IS A LIGHT.]

[THE LIGHT CREATES ONLY MORE. IT FILLS ONLY THE BAREST CORNERS. IT IS ONLY A MILKY RED.]

[THE SWINGING INTENSIFIES]

[SOMEONE SPEAKS OFF CAMERA:  
MONOLOGUE I / [Act II, Scene II](http://nfs.sparknotes.com/romeojuliet/page_88.html)]: “My bounty is as boundless as the sea,  
My love as deep. The more I give to thee,  
The more I have, for both are infinite.”

SCENE:

A beautiful boy stands in the corner. He is shuddering. There is only red, but when you recognise it is coming from his nose, you watch as it drips down his chin and along the veins of his neck:  
his violence a visual feast.

You say: I am sorry about the blood in your [mouth](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/).

There is a hunger here.

SCENE:

A beautiful boy stands in the corner. The blood in his teeth glistens in the damp light.

SCENE:

He reaches for you. His hands have shadows. Can you live in the shadows, if you tried? His hands pass through yours like smoke.

Behind him there is a window, and through it only a red light shines through. It turns his dark spaces a deep maroon.

CUT:

If his body was made of words, what would he be saying?

SCENE:

His voice eclipses you in red.

_Do you? Do you, still?_

-

[MANDAG 17:32](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eUv7S813kVQ)

When he makes it upstairs to the apartment with a bag full of clean sheets, Even finds both girls have since returned home. Mari is on facetime with her sister while she’s cooking. Hemi is sitting outside on the balcony. When he collapses on the chair next to her, he realises that she’s wearing his denim jacket. Even must have left it sitting out.

“Hei,” he sighs cheerfully. He grins when he peeks the joint in her hand. “Started without me I see?”

“Sorry _you_ took forever to get your laundry,” Hemi shrugs, but regardless she passes it to him. “What have you been up to today?”

“Here and there,” Even shrugs. By eight this morning he couldn’t take it anymore. He had walked alongside the river and smoked four cigarettes back to back, effectively breaking his own resolve to quit smoking. An idea stalked him, after the conversation with his mother, and he couldn’t quite put it down. Sleep had been a task last night. “I went to the darkroom to work most of the morning.”

“Oh really? Nice,” Hemi nods. She looks down at the joint and ashes it. She seems a little distracted. But when she turns to face him, she’s smiling a little. “Now, I did this totally by accident, before you start in on me. When I put this on to come outside, I was looking for a light, and - ” her fingers dig through his pocket and then pulls out something with an air of victory, “Aha! I found this. Who has been leaving you their number, Even Bech Næsheim?”

Even can’t decide if he’s angry or nervous first. Mostly he feels caught red-handed, though he knows there’s no way she would have texted the number to investigate. He fixes her with a deadpan look and when she only mirrors him, he rolls his eyes.

“I see how you are,” he frowns. “Just someone who came into work. Which you know is one of my pet peeves.”

Hemi giggles. “So I guess it’s a no, huh?”

“Well...I’m not so sure,” Even is thinking quickly. “I may text them yet.”

“Oh so it’s like _that,_ ” Hemi teases. “What are they like? Tall? Not tall? Do tell me.”

“Not as tall as me,” Even reluctantly admits. “I’m not sure. We’ll see. I don’t know if I like him yet.”

“A guy?” Hemi raises her eyebrows. “Well, if you end up texting him, how exciting would that be? It’s been ages since you liked anyone.”

She seems to visibly relax, and it puzzles Even. What exactly did he say? What did it confirm to her? He thinks: stop overthinking. Maybe she didn’t relax at all, but merely shifted. He wonders: is it because she thinks they’re a boy? Does it bother her less? Or more? Would her reaction be different if it was a woman? Is she upset now?

He thinks about the kiss. It must show on his face, because after Hemi blows out a stream of smoke, she sighs. “Okay. Enough. I don’t want you being all weird about it.”

“Weird about it? About what?” But Even thinks he knows.

“About telling me stuff. We’re best friends, Even, and since we went out you’ve been so....quiet about everything. It honestly makes me feel worse if you’re awkward around me. Fuck, just let me have my stupid crush in peace. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Hemi,” he groans, “I don’t…”

“Nope,” she cuts him off, “I mean it. Cut it out with whatever speech you’ve got. You think you’re such a martyr, you know that? Like you have to go around saving everyone from their own fucking feelings,” she looks at him through her fringe. “Well, let me tell you something. You don’t. It’s actually better if you don’t.”

She passes him the joint without another word. Even smokes, feeling her irritation permeate his thoughts.

“Okay,” he concedes finally. “You’re right. I shouldn’t do that. I just feel…”

“Even,” Hemi shakes her head with an air of finality. “Literally, save it. If you say ‘it’s me, not you’ I might combust.”

“You are my best friend,” he says because he can’t help himself. “I’m sorry. You are, though. And I don’t know that I’ll even like him enough to bother just yet. But as soon as I figure out if he’s worthy enough, you’ll be the first person I talk to.”

“After your mother and Susanne and Mari,” but she’s smiling at him, pearlescent and taciturn in equal measure. “But cool. I should hope so. Because I’m the toughest opinion to swing.”

Oh, Even knows it. Guilt curdles in his gut.

-

TIRSDAG 11:12

Even’s spent the morning digging through old notes on a project he had turned in last semester when a text sends his phone into a vibrating frenzy. Ever since he dropped it in a can of latex paint a couple of weeks ago it’s been acting funny.

Isak 11:13 // hei, what are you up to today?

A sigh of relief. Taking it slow has been under debate. A lesson in romantics: What exactly did ‘slow’ mean?

He hadn’t understood what Isak had meant, and if he’s honest with himself he still doesn’t know exactly what it entails. Slow in what way? Sexually? Sex is a game he could play, and play it well - a touch here, and a kiss there, edging toward a build up of tension that would give way to the most beautiful of releases. Sex he knew: when he was with Sonja, they had taken years to learn each other. Sex became like lessons: playful, and hot and weird all at once. Sonja would ask him: Do you like this position more? How should I go down on you? Did you want me to pull your hair? And he would ask her in return: Can I bring you off with just my tongue? What about this angle? Do you like it when I... when I nose your neck, like this? Or touch your mouth, like this? These were merely pieces of a bigger puzzle Even felt comfortable shifting through.

In a lot of ways Sonja counted as Even’s first for everything. But with Isak he experienced sex differently. Not just because he was a boy, and there was another dick present. It was the blind side that Even didn’t expect. The carnal, untamed nature of orgasming when you were deep in the throes of love. Even couldn’t articulate it any other way. With Isak he figured out how to make love. It may have sounded like regular Monday afternoon fucking. It didn’t feel like just that.

Til Isak 11:19 // not much. You free?

Isak 11:20 // Indeed. Shall I come meet you at yours? #82?

Til Isak 11:20 // Depends, are we going somewhere else straight after? Because then I’m happy to meet you.

Isak 11:21 // I have something in mind. You don’t mind a surprise do you?

Til Isak 11:23 // Never. What time then? Will take me at least an hour to do my hair ofc

Isak 11:23 // haha ur so funny. Meet me at Grønland, at Bussterminalen? 13:00?

Til Isak 11:26 // takk. See you soon

Even smiles. Notes abandoned, his day had a new outlook to it. It’s about time Isak texted too, because Saturday feels like it could have been a week ago. Time has passed slowly for him. Maybe that’s what Isak meant?

Now there is a new plan in place, he feels both relieved and inexplicably more frustrated: taking it slow? To what degree of slowness? Nerves ate at his gut. He could hold off touching Isak if that is what Isak wants, though he’s not sure he sees the reasoning. There is no need for that first hook-up anxiety inducing sense of _but what if they don’t like what they see when they see me naked?_ Because Even knows exactly what Isak looks like naked, whether he’s being silly or sexy. Even knows what sounds he makes, how his body contorts or fans out. It’s been some time, but ultimately there’s no surprises there.

But then, what if he means emotionally? Even bites his bottom lip. That is not a game he’s very good at in any sense. He thinks back to Isak on Saturday, his first full day of being twenty-one. _Let’s take our time, this time around_. When they were teenagers all they did was rush through life, eager to grow up, to experience, to prove themselves. Now it’s different: there’s no need to fly through the motions of what one thinks they should be doing because seemingly everyone else is doing it. Perhaps Isak just means he wants it be different from the time prior.

Even doesn’t understand how slow works, but he does understand wanting it to be different. It just makes him insecure: can we not just go to the end, and resume where we left off? He wants to hold Isak by his shoulders and look straight in his eye. Ask him: are you afraid? Are you afraid of me?

 _Even_ , his mind is spinning in circles. He takes a deep breath, but it’s shallow. Then another, more purposeful breath. Even thinks: Isak is not afraid of you. Isak has never been afraid of you. Remember when he was seventeen, and he would get this resolute look in his eyes, and he would fight you every time you tried to make him leave?

 _Make me_ , Isak would say. _Try and make me give up on you. It’s not going to happen._

Well, they both knew that wasn’t true. Eventually it did happen.

Okay, _enough_. With that thought he stands up and physically tries to will this cycle of thinking away from him. Though Even has over an hour, he begins to get ready anyway. He takes a shower and watches the condensation build up along the window, and draws little spirals with his fingers. He does, with only a touch of irony, take a considerable amount of time to do his hair. He is methodical at picking out his clothes. What shirt? A rose-coloured button up, with the sleeves rolled up. A loose knitted terracotta coloured jumper, with dark jeans. Just the top line of his clavicle visible, like the corner of a page folded in a book.

He looks to the mess spread out on the floor, collections of photographs and poetry he’s fastidiously organised for when he feels the urge to create. Sometimes he only he wants to dismantle previous projects so he can reuse certain pieces for future work. There are a dozen of boxes of photographs, and materials and paint supplies. He had pulled out only four of them to rifle through and yet the mess threatens to expand over his entire room.

From his position near his mirror, he can spot out the strip of negatives that he took just after he turned twenty. For his birthday, he and Isak had gone skiing together. On top of the stack lay a photo of Isak in a red beanie, his hands coming up to hide his face. Behind him it was only grey snow, and darkness, and trees. Even had manipulated the photo so that a red glare split the composition nearly in half. It only dramatised the use of flash on the snow, the expression of Isak’s face, caught behind laughter and terror. Technically, the flare ruined his rule of thirds. But he hadn’t cared: my boy blessed in red.

“You look nice,” Mari says from her spot on the sofa. She must be working a later shift because she’s not dressed to leave yet. “Got plans?”

“Yep,” Even nods. He pulls his jean jacket off the back of the chair. “Meeting a friend.”

“Oh?” Mari raises her eyebrows. “Is this by chance, the mystery man that Hemi told me about?”

“You gossip girls,” Even sighs, but grins anyway. “Maybe. Do I look like I could be meeting a mystery man?”

“Certainly. You look so delicious I could eat you,” Mari teases him. “I swear you own every shade of pink God ever created.”

“Why, thank you Mim. On that lovely note, I shall leave you,” Even walks backwards and executes a little bow just so he can hear Mari laugh as he leaves. He reminds himself not to feel bad about it.

-

[TIRSDAG 13:49](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bMqXxafmtco)

“Are you going to tell me at all, or just let me figure it out for when we arrive?” Even’s feet are tucked up on the seat in front of him; the bus is nearly empty save for a few older people in the front. Isak just smiles and shakes his head.

“You can guess all you want, but honestly save your breath. When we get there you’ll know,” Isak tells him. He raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you have any patience?”

Even frowns at him. No, he wants to say. Absolutely not. You should know this.

Then another thought arrives: What is this ‘taking it slow’ again?

But he doesn’t act on it. Instead he knocks his knee into the side of Isak’s, turning his head away from the window. Oslo thins out until there is just stretches of road and houses and trees to look at. “You ever think about how different the city feels without all the snow?”

Isak turns to him. “Yeah.”

Even turns back to the window. “Like a totally different place, doesn’t it?”

“In some ways,” Isak allows. “The snow does soften everything. Makes it feel like there are no edges.”

“Yeah,” Even nods. He presses his finger into the glass. Outside thickets of trees whip past them, merely blurry green brush. “It’s funny how what we think we know turns out to be something else entirely.”

“I prefer no snow,” Isak decides. When Even shoots him a look that translates to well, obviously, Isak elaborates. “I mean, not just because the cold gets tiring. I like when it is lush, and green and maybe a little ugly.”

“How come?”

He considers this. His eyes follow where Even’s fingers are resting against the glass still. “Because at least it’s alive. Otherwise everything feels too still. There is no life.”

Isak brings him to the Henie Onstad Kunstsenter, which Even has not actually visited since he was a child. The breeze ripples their clothes as they walk up to the front entrance. Even stares at the long flat lines of the building’s architecture.

Before they enter, Isak gives him a look. “Cool?”

It sounds like hestistancy. Even nods, biting back a smile. “Cool.”

After they get their tickets, they gauge the spread of the open floor plan. Isak is a half step behind and they fall into a comfortable pattern where Even choose what direction they’ll take next. First, an exhibition on [posters](http://hok.no/en/event/flyktig-form-kunst-p%C3%A5-plakat), considering their contribution and influence on the commercialism of art, all organised in delightful tetris-inspired tiles, from floor to ceiling.

When Even is strolling through the Kurt Schwitters’ permanent collection, he feels Isak’s hand reach for him and lace their fingers together.

“Is there anything you wanted to see?” Isak asked as they rounded another corner. A window stretched on to display the knolls of green grass behind them. He’s holding the information pamphlet. “I still can’t believe you were surprised. I thought for sure that the bus would have given it away.”

“You may brag about it as much as you like, as I’m sure it’ll be the last time you ever successfully catch me by surprise,” Even teases him. He sees a sign on the wall. “Oh, they have a Dag Alveng [exhibition](http://www.alveng.com/asylum-1/). Let’s go.”

“Still Time,” Isak reads out the title, and then nods. “Yep. Lead the way.”

The photographs take up an entire room. There is a sense of stagnation here, further accentuated by the deep hum of the central heating simmering quietly in the background. It’s an assortment of Alveng’s work throughout the years. Even lets go of Isak’s hand to step up to the first photo. His jaw sets as he takes it every detail. The composition of his subject, layered in shadow and overexposure. The lack of colour dictates the limits that the artist must work within.

Isak flits ahead. He takes less time to engage with every photo than Even does, instead deciding quickly the ones he does or doesn’t like. The sound of his footsteps allows Even to measure how long he stands in front of each one without having to turn around. A couple of moments pass before Even realises there is no more sound, and curious, he turns to see which of the photographs has transfixed Isak. He’s standing farther down, his back a rigid line.

When Even is closer, he can see in Isak’s profile the way his mouth is set in a small frown. Even turns to follow his line of sight. It’s a diptych composed of a dark rendering on the left: a black leather chair with a thick strap attached to it. The second photo on the right is lighter to offset the balance. It’s a straight ahead shot of a glass door with a rudimentary ‘GOD’ spray painted in English on it.

Even considers the piece: it’s a beautiful tension between what is tethered and what is intangible. The composition of dark versus light is certainly visually effective to communicate the duality of human creation: what restrains us, what sets us free. He wonders why Isak is so captured by this specific piece, until his eyes find the collection from which these are from.

Asylum.

Even feels his gut turn. His body acts on its own accord, because he doesn’t remember thinking about what to do, only that he needs to touch Isak, and bring him away from the photo. He approaches gently, sliding his arm around his shoulders. But Isak doesn’t even so much as flinch when he feels Even steer them back towards the exit, nor does he say anything as they walk through the museum and outside. The breeze feels cathartic, and Even welcomes it in comparison to the purified museum air.

“It’s okay, Even.”

Even turns around. Isak’s eyes are on the pamphlet in his hands, folding and refolding the corners with his thumbs. “I’m okay,” Isak says again. He does not look at Even.

“I know you’re okay.”

Isak reacts in surprise, perhaps because he thought Even would argue otherwise. They used to all the time, because Even always felt he knew better, and Isak likewise. _I know you’re upset, because I know you_ , became their go-to line of attack.

Even jerks his head towards the grassy knoll which lies just beyond the museum, and Isak follows him without a word. When he deems they’ve put enough space between themselves and the exhibition, Even turns around and pulls Isak into a sound embrace. He’s thankful when Isak sinks into it, pressing his forehead into the dip of his neck. They must stand there for a minute or two, Even just running his cheek against Isak’s temple. He feels a shiver run through Isak’s body, and thinks: well, perhaps he’s imagined it. But then Isak is so quiet when he suffers, so maybe he doesn’t imagine it at all.

“Shit, I should have packed a lunch,” Even smiles when they break apart. Aside from the cloudy look in Isak’s eyes, he does actually seem okay. Even realises he’s anxious, waiting for the moment when the dam breaks and all the terrible reality floods back. Twice this year already Even watched as his face had crumbled into despair, and just the memory of it makes him sway uneasily with feral nerves: _please don’t cry_ , he thinks randomly. Whatever you do, don’t cry.

Isak doesn’t cry. Instead he takes a step towards the edge of the knoll so he can assess the shoreline properly. The seaside is somber today, and Even sits in the hazy sunlit spot on the grass there, letting his legs hang off the side a little. Isak sits next to him.

“Did you like it?” he asks.

Even nods. “Very much. I didn’t realise you were so artistically inclined.”

“Oh, I’m very in know here. I was just seeing if you knew your trade,” Isak teases him. They touch shoulders.

“Testing me already?”

Isak laughs. “Me? Test you? The master? I think not.”

“What? How am I the master?”

Isak fixes Even with a look that speaks volume. Are you kidding? His raised eyebrow practically spells out. Even holds his bluff but then relents. “Okay, okay. But I’m not setting tests. Or playing any games. I haven’t anyway for a long time.”

“Oh good, you’re doing a service to everyone,” Isak scoffs. “People just fall over themselves for you left and right without your help. Thank God you don’t toy with their affections as well.”

“Isak! What are you talking about,” Even jests goodnaturedly. “I am merely the friendly neighborhood queer.”

“Bullshit,” Isak rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling now, no trace of any upset from earlier. “You walk around with your camera and your stupid James Dean glasses and that hair, I know exactly what other people see.”

Even raises his eyebrows. He wants to ask how long it took Isak to figure out what Tart Arnel’s were. Just the idea he sat on Eskild’s sofa and googled them tickles Even. Instead another matter presses ahead of all others. “Funny. I find I only care what you see.”

Isak looks away. He didn’t expect such a turn in the conversation, but then, catching Isak off guard is what Even wants to excel in. “If the sun was born a person,” he says drily. It’s meant to be a joke, but it falls between them, saturated in meaning.

“So if I were a colour, I’d be yellow, then?” Even asks.

Isak considers this. “Yeah. Mostly. I don’t know, I’ll have to think on that actually. For the record, that is not my final answer. Inform the powers that be.”

“Consider them informed.”

Here they are again, on the water, looking out at the horizon. What is out there? Even thinks. Everything he knows is sitting right beside him, and yet there still exists so much more. The universe is terrifying and great.

“What about me?”

Pulled out of his thoughts, Even turns to Isak. Just the corner of his lip is pulled up. One of his more demure smiles, when he’s just a touch shy. Even raises an eyebrow. “What about you?”

A huff. “I mean, what colour am I, if I am a colour?”

Even can’t help it. The answer is at the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t want to relinquish it just yet. “What makes you think you get a colour, pal?”

Isak just rolls his eyes. “Okay, sure, you can play it that way. And perhaps if I were anyone else I’d believe you. But I already know that you definitely have thought about this and that I definitely get a colour.”

Even sighs dramatically. He slings an arm around Isak’s shoulders, drawing him in closer, the heat of his body warming Even’s side. Even turns to kiss the side of his face, lips planted firmly on his temple.

“You’re red,” Even murmurs into his skin. “You’re all red.”

-

~~ TRISQUAD ~~

HEMROD 16:33 // EVEN *screams into the void* you’re actually on a date rn?!

HEMROD 16:34 // WHEN do we get to meet this individual?! If ur on a date then it is like...a real deal THING!!!

HEMROD 16:34 // u can’t escape us forever u know that right? Are you embarrassed of me & mimz?

HEMROD 16:35 // cos we’re only the coolest flatmates EVER and they’d be only impressed to meet us u kno

-

ONSDAG 18:32

It’s one of those days where Even tries as hard as he can to block out all his other thoughts so he can just work: a rush started around noon that hasn’t abided since. He’s on autopilot, pulling shots and pouring milk for latte after cappuccino after cortado after latte and so on. It’s not until Finn happily flips the sign on the door and locks them inside that he and Even take a collective sigh of relief.

They trade off mopping for purging the hopper, a task which involves Even wearing his glasses to protect his eyes for any propellant beans he may come upon with a finely toothed brush. Having CaroCafe in his eye was a lesson he only had to learn once. By the time Finn is counting out the tills and Even’s prepared enough cold brew for the next morning, he all but sags against the counter and checks his phone.

Isak 17:46 // are you free tonight? I’ve officially moved in now and jonas is out for most of the evening, so i thought maybe

Isak 17:46 // we could hang out?

Even stares at the message for a moment. Is he free? Technically no. The girls wanted to go out for drinks and dinner tonight and finish off the evening with a show that Hemi had been rattling on about all of yesterday. Even weighs his options: Hemi would probably be annoyed that he’d cancel last minute, but with a lick of shame, Even knows she’s bypass any grievance if it meant Even is going on another date with the ‘mystery man,’ as they’ve come to call him. Even considers it again: does he need to fulfill every one of Isak’s questions with a yes even when it poses a dilemma for him? Is it right to continue to keep the girls in the dark if it means having uninterrupted time with Isak whenever he pleases?

No, a voice answers him. It is not.

Well, he combats back. So be it.

Til Isak 18:39 // I *guess* I can make time for you

Til Isak 18:40 // when and where?

In the same stroke, he opens the groupchat.

~~ TRISQUAD ~~

EVIII 18:41 // hey, looks like i might have a date so you both go on without me...and tell me how the concert is!

MIMZ 18:42 // oi! We see how it is. Haha have fun

HEMROD 18:43 // well well well…

HEMROD 18:43 // oh, btw there’s a letter here for you. From you know who. Can i recycle this one? Pretty please? Seeing as you’re basically on a date with someone else!

Even heaves a sigh. It must be the second letter. The one Isak wrote while he was on mushrooms.

EVIII 18:45 // no, don’t do that. Just leave it in my room

HEMROD 18:45 // ur no fun even. Like, Isak who? Now you’ve got this mystery man….

EVIII 18:46 // Hemi

MIMZ 18:47 // don’t worry, i’ve put it in your room Even. See you later!

Another text from Isak then:

Isak 18:47 // Its 18 Kolstadgata, across from the Kiwi.

Til Isak 18:49 // chill, shall i just head over then? Coming from TW

“You’ve got milk on your face,” Finn’s voice brings Even away from his phone. He looks up and touches his cheeks, before going to the espresso machine reflection and locating the source. Sure enough, there are little white blobs clinging to his eyelashes and a larger droplet on his cheek. He licks his fingers and tries his best.

“Thanks,” he laughs, “God, that felt like both the longest and the shortest day ever.”

“Indeed,” Finn hangs his head, “And to think, we do it all again tomorrow!”

Even slings his rucksack over one shoulder. “Not for me, actually. I’m off until Saturday. But enjoy opening with Tove.”

“Lucky asshole,” Finn teases him goodnaturedly. “She’s always the utmost pleasure in the mornings.” Even just laughs in response as he starts to plan his route to Tøyen.

Finn locks up the shop and they part ways, and as he rounds the corner he thinks perhaps he should bring something. It is Isak’s first night in his new room. Flowers? Not the effect Even is looking for. Chocolate? Isak will probably laugh straight in his face, and the image of this scenario makes Even grin to himself stupidly as he pops into the nearest corner shop.

He figures a new pack of rolling tobacco and a bottle of wine will have to do. He’s made several half attempts to stop smoking because eventually there would be a night where he couldn’t sleep and he’d just sit and chain smoke on the balcony, waiting for the sun to rise, ruminating on his life. And yet it’s always so easy to be lulled back to smoking, with just the smell of a lit cigarette wafting through the street, or after a couple of drinks has turned his blood red hot and flush underneath the surface of his skin, and Even’s reduced to just his desire: _I want another drink, I want a smoke, and I want to sit down and enjoy both._

His phone vibrates and it takes him three tries to try to unlock it before it obeys. With a sigh, Even stops and focuses fully on trying to open the message. His phone keeps emitting these fuzzy twitches and half-vibrations for his troubles.

Isak 19:01 // i’m out of beer, but jonas left plenty of weed here.

Even smiles.

Til Isak 19:02 // i’m way ahead of you

He’s about to pocket it when another message comes sailing through.

Isak 19:02 // of course you are

Goddamn it, this boy will contribute surely to his end. Any modicum of composure he’s ever attained will lay in ruin at his feet. And he’ll point to Isak: you did this to me. How dare you do this to me? Even feels impossible, and intangible, rooted on this street corner. How can he possibly remain at a full standstill like this, incapable of keeping his mouth fixed in a singular expression? If he fights this smile anymore, his face will protest.

He thinks of Isak, a backdrop of endless water behind him, clear and blue as the eye could see. His strawberry blonde hair ruffling in the wind as he’d narrowed his eyes at Even: _I know exactly what other people see._

But what Isak fails to understand is that Even too has eyes. And he wants to take hold of Isak and ask him: but do you know what other people see when they look at you? You think I do not see their hunger?

Isak walks around in this world purposely ignorant to how he looks, and so he’s convincing when he asks: who, me? Probably not.

Even has considered in meticulous detail the first few weeks they had met. Every missed moment; every glance that lingered too long, a night with a kiss that almost was. Isak pulled the very same thing on Even when they were at Nissen. Are you sure? His eyes would always ask, always follow Even wherever he went. _I just can’t believe you’re looking at me like that_. This was back when Even couldn’t decide whether he should to stay away from Isak forever or never take his eyes off of him again. By Christmas they were together.

Nearly three years ago, Even had just graduated and was working at KB. Nissen’s exam period had finally folded in surrender to summer holidays. He remembers, not without a touch of rose tint, Isak in his prime: freckled and flushed and golden haired. Importantly: he was eighteen. Free to come and go and leave when he pleased. Free to fart and lie about and roll around with Even in their sweaty sheets and make as much noise as their neighbors would politely tolerate. No more locked doors, he would tell Even. And then he’d cover it with a small chuckle about how it was impossible anyway, in their tiny space. That summer encompassed some of their most intense conversations about where they were going, and who they wanted to be. That had been their summer of love.

Even would tell him every morning: you are the beauty in my life. And Isak would roll his eyes and bat him away, but the little flush that would fill his cheeks would be enough for Even to say it again the next day. And on those summer nights, when the sun was nowhere near setting, together they’d sit on the windowsill and share a joint between them. Isak’s face nearly in Even’s neck as he spoke, soft and honest and with abandon as he told him about his dreams:

_I could go anywhere, so long as it's you and me. Think of it, this time next year we can do anything. Picture us in a apartment with lots of windows which means plenty of light for your studio. We could get a cat. I would study and you work. Or we could both study if you want. Where shall we go? You said the other night that Berlin could be nice._

On nights where the air was warm and they felt particularly amorous, Isak would request his favorite story: tell me about the time you first saw me.

Even knows it still so well that he could probably transcribe it from memory. He thinks he probably has, and it’s tucked in one of the twelve boxes of artwork under his bed. So Even would tell him, in cathartic detail, when he first saw Isak in the courtyard on the first day of his last year of school, the second time around. How he’d picked out the slight swagger of his gait, his leather backpack, the curve of his bone structure, and immediately a thought had come to his mind: huh. So that’s where you’ve been all this time.

His feet have carried him to 18 Kolstadgata, and as he spots the Kiwi adjacent to him, he hears a whistle that couldn’t possibly be the result of coincidence. Even pivots and sure enough, there’s Isak grinning in resplendence, leaning over the balcony on the top floor.

“You going to buzz me up then?” Even calls out. “Or shall we talk like this all night?”

Isak’s laugh trickles down to where he’s standing. “What’s wrong with this? Too intimate? Not intimate enough?”

“No, no, this is perfect. I feel like Romeo.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “I suppose you could make an alright Romeo if we’re thinking it’s sunny and LA and 1996 and you’re actually Leonardo Dicaprio.”

“That was Miami, actually. In Florida. I’m happy you agree I’m obviously Leo. Because what other versions are there worth discussing?”

“I should have known Shakespeare has nothing on Luhrmann for you,” Isak teases. Even realises he’s smoking a cigarette just as he ashes it. “Our buzzer doesn’t work, so I’m coming down.”

-

 

 


	4. Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the wait on this chapter! I had to move and that became a lengthy process unfortunately - saying goodbye and packing up and spending one very strange evening in Iceland. A story for another time. 
> 
> Firstly, thank you to Immy for the help, encouragement, and beta-efforts. You're the best, and so admiringly collected amongst my flailings and insecurities.
> 
> Secondly, I know I always say 'it doesn't matter if you don't want to listen to the songs or click the art.' And listen, it doesn't! I am so happy anyone is taking the time to read at all, really. But if there is a ONE SONG that really begs attention, one that really does add to this story, then it is Loveless by Lo Moon - a song Isak plays for Even. I saw them live a couple months ago and literally cried when they played this song. So please, please, please. Listen to that song. It's on spotify. It's on youtube. [ Have a listen. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GhZdG3R77G0)
> 
> Thirdly, I know there may be some canonical disbelief that Isak is a student of politics and philosophy rather than science, as he loves biology so much. The reason I made this change is A) I wanted him to go Bard, and B) I literally went through this change myself. In school I was obsessed with biology, specifically genetics (punnet squares anyone?) and forensic biology, and I was convinced I would go to university for it and become a scientist. But then, I got accepted into my university of choice, which ironically did not offer that degree. So I switched! And guess what: I LOVED it. It was a whole new way of thinking for me, and challenging what I thought I knew, in particular what I thought I knew about science. Next year I'm hoping to do my Phd in a combination study of politics/philosophy/gender. 
> 
> That being said, the links which reference German Idealism, Phenomenology and Existentialism are not requirements to understand what is being said. Embarrassingly enough, I cannot actually remember or find the text where Maurice Merleau-Ponty wrote about 'folds or pockets of consciousness' and I am worried that it was actually Beauvoir who said that, but I cannot find where she wrote it either. I'm super sad about it, but I already spent half a day looking for the source and I came up with nothing. 
> 
> If you're interested in Existentialism, then I want to recommend a very well written and entertaining book [At the Existentialist Café: Freedom, Being, and Apricot Cocktails by Sarah Bakewell](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25658482-at-the-existentialist-caf). No background in philosophy really required to enjoy.
> 
> I did take a few creative liberties with both the architecture of Chateau Neuf and Pride celebrations in Oslo - but they are small, and only in order to add to the story. 
> 
> * There is one implied reference to Even's attempt to complete suicide, as well as a vocal acknowledgement of it. 
> 
> All other mistakes are my own. I'm always open to critique and concerns!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who took the time to write me a comment and leave kudos, as well as write me on tumblr. you're all the sweetest and this story wouldn't have been fully written without you.

-

ONSDAG 19:22

The building that Jonas lives in is not unlike the one they rented when they lived together. The staircases are wide and the hallways painted an impassive off white, and of course there is no lift to any of these floors, even though there are four of them. By the time they’ve reached the top, Even has decided that the freckle on the back of Isak’s arm was absolutely not there before, if the memories hold up with any accuracy.

“Jonas is out tonight,” Isak explains. The living room is elongated and seemingly airy by design of a few well placed windows. It tapers off into a balcony on one side, and on the opposite, a rudimentary bookshelf spreads the entire length of a wall. There are so many books piled haphazardly on it that Even pauses to ponder the sheer amount of organised chaos. Beside it, there’s a comfortable looking arm chair and a well-loved sofa arranged around a coffee table and a television, as well as a tangle of video game controllers piled in a heap amongst several stacks of games.

“On your first night here?” Even asks, though he suspected he probably wouldn’t be in. Isak hasn’t really brought up his friends, either in Oslo or Berlin. Likewise, Even hasn’t brought up Hemi or Mari either, except for when Isak has made passing enquiries about their wellbeing.

“We’re going out Friday,” Isak smiles as he turns back to look at Even, leading them both into the small galley kitchen. It’s a little blinding. “Apparently there is this show that Eva really wanted to see, and Jonas was the only one who said yes. According to him, he ‘had to go.’”

“Huh,” Even nods, wondering if it's the same show that Hemi and Mari were going to. “I didn’t realise they were still together.”

Isak shakes his head. “They’re not. But they’re not...strangers either, if you know what I mean.”

Even laughs at the expression. “No, I don’t quite understand.”

It pulls an eyeroll out of Isak. “Okay, well that makes two of us. But whatever, you know? Eva does what she wants. And Jonas can’t really say no to her - so I guess we can call them friends.”

“Sure,” Even says. He slings his bag around to his front. “I brought wine. And some tobacco.”

Isak lets out a delighted gasp, “How did you know that I was nearly out of tobacco?”

Even smirks, “I didn’t.” 

“No, you didn’t,” Isak shakes his head with a little laugh, “But you somehow always manage to guess correctly,” he seems a little smug about this. “Anyway, this is our kitchen. It’s a glorified hallway.”

Even nods, looking around at the cluttered counter tops, the half-eaten tikka masala sitting out next to the fridge. It reminds him of their old apartment. “Seems chill.”

“It’ll do,” Isak agrees. He takes the wine from Even, removes the cork and pours them two mugs full. He smiles, his eyes glittering only slightly as he raises his cup to cheers.

“Skål,” they toast at the same time. Even finds he can’t keep his eyes fixed on one point, instead letting his gaze roam over the photos on the fridge, old paper submissions, random magnets collected in clusters. When he returns his gaze he finds Isak looking back at him.

“Anyway,” Isak says. “Come see the rest.”

The rest compromises of a small wash closet and toilet, Jonas’s room which overlooks the front street outside, and finally Isak’s room. Tucked in the back and facing the east, his room is surprisingly larger than what Even pictured. He stands in the doorway as Isak spins around with his arms out in display.

“It’s just for the summer,” Isak explains with a half-shrug. “Hans is cool. His family is originally from just outside Berlin, so we were able to bond a little before he left. I haven’t really decorated, except for a few things.”

There’s a double bed in the centre of the room propped up on cinder blocks, with two wooden crates stacked as nightstands. They too are filled with books, mostly on what looks like political theory and some dry macro-economics. Even scans the walls: posters of liberation fronts and a vintage rendering of Che Guevara’s iconic poster. A desk tucked in one corner, opposite a large window which displayed a flat red brick wall of the building on the opposite side of the street. Even could recognise the attention that Hans had put into to obtaining his minimally assembled room. The potted plant in the corner, the sound system, the white duvets, little touches to soften all the hard edges. There is no trace of Isak in the room, until -

Even sees them, his eyes zeroing in: six postcards, pinned by their corners on the wall next to the window. Arranged in two neat rows. He turns to Isak, only to find him watching Even. His chin is tilted towards Even and it’s an expression he recognises immediately as Isak gauging for a reaction.

“I take them with me wherever I go,” Isak admits. His expression is elusive. “It’s a little funny. I've read them probably a hundred times,” he chuckles softly. “Like I'm some sad soldier in some old war-themed movie.”

Even appreciates his attempt to keep it light. He hasn’t seen any of these postcards for a long time, more than a year and half at least. He remembers, like a sharp jolt, where he was when he acquired each one: the mountains in Spain, a little tourist shop in the middle of nowhere. Or the Musee d’Orsay in Paris, at the vendor on the corner, that night he spent walking through the Latin Quarter up through to Montmarte until it was well into the morning. He also remembers the person he was then, when he wrote them.

Even just nods. “It’s a nice room. It must be very bright, with the window.”

“Mm,” Isak smiles. “Jonas has the brunt of it. Says the morning is when he does all his best work. Not me. I like watching the sun dip down. Course it never seems to go, this time of year.”

Suddenly Even doesn’t know what to say or do. He just feels - everything: the proximity of Isak, the smell of the apartment, foreign and comforting at the same time. The postcards on the wall, dusty evening light still casting the room in warmth. His nerves are on edge, but regardless, there’s a fullness, being here.

Even thinks of the texts from earlier. “I received a letter from you today.”

He is met with a face full of confusion. Before Isak has a chance to respond, Even cuts in with: “It must have been the second letter. From your mushroom trip. It never arrived. But I think it’s sitting now at my apartment. Weren’t you going to tell me about that?”

Isak ducks his head, bashful and lovely looking. He rubs the back of his neck and drops himself onto the bed. Even shrugs his bag off his shoulder and follows suit. “I did say I was going to tell you all about it.”

Even nods, quirking an eyebrow. “You did indeed.”

Isak just smiles wider, clearly tickled and probably a little embarrassed. He leans over the bed to rummage for something, and pulls out a bag of weed. It’s a murky green-yellow and clustered in large buds, the kief crystalline and glittering as it clings to the leaves of the flower. Even takes it from him and smells it. Pungent and sweet.

“Jonas?” Even guesses.

“My welcome home present,” Isak nods. “I’ll tell you all about my trip, if first, you roll a joint.”

“Oh, are you sure you don’t want to?”

“Even,” Isak lies down horizontally across his bed and props his head up with on hand and looks up at him, face drawn in sarcastic amusement. They stare each other down for a second, both seeing who will bite first. Isak scoffs. Isak always bites first. “There’s no point in pretending it’s not gonna be you rolling the joints here.”

“True,” he allows. Grins a little wider. He digs through his own bag for a long paper and a crutch. Isak passes him a hardcover book without another word, so Even can set about rolling them a joint. A quietness settles the moment except for the squeak of Even’s old grinder.

“I was listening to Sufjan Steven’s earlier,” Even hedges again. “So what was it like?”

He can’t help but be so curious, even though he tries to hide how much he wants to know what other drugs are like. He hopes no one ever would know how he envies those who are able to take them at will and just trust they will recover appropriately.

His mind unhelpfully supplies: every great artist is either addicted to drugs or is mentally unwell.

Then: or both.

“Martin is the fan of Sufjan, and had the mushrooms. He’s one of the new friends I was telling you about. And since last beginning of April, my roommate at the new place,” Isak explains. “He’s always putting something on this record player he has when we get high, and at first he was playing his usual mix of stuff. A lot of neo-soul or funk, some remixes, some hip hop. You’d like his music. Honestly, I think you’d both like each other immediately. He’s the kind of person who just sort of ….walks in and somehow knows half the people there. So of course he is randomly given all these shrooms in exchange for coming through for a party from a couple weeks ago. When the boys visited we thought it was the perfect opportunity. And at some point they were gonna go off obviously.”

“Obviously,” Even agrees. He licks up the seam and holds it up into the light, trying to find any imperfections. There are none. Satisfied, he passes it to Isak.

Isak lights it and for a moment Even steps back from the scene here. He thinks: I’ve pinpointed bliss. Rolling a joint and listening to him tell a story. The dense waft of smoke creeping up his nose. Isak lying sideways on his bed with his legs hanging off the end, his t-shirt loose around the collar, the veins in his neck taut as he pulls a drag. The hem dips down and reveals a very appealing view of his collarbone. Even finds his gaze going back to revisit it every few seconds.

“Yep,” Isak passes the joint. “So the boys are down, totally. Martin had been on full force that entire weekend, I’m not even sure he slept the night before. We took whatever he gave us which was fucking stupid because we ended taking way too much, and Magnus was tripping balls, I swear to you. We went in the courtyard in our building so I could smoke, mainly, because I was craving it. Martin brought his speaker out with him and he put on Sufjan because he’s feeling wistful, and he keeps wanting to be ‘one’ with the moment.

“Anyway, being on shrooms… it just sort of trickles in, but then you’re in it and you’re full fucking on. And you hallucinate sure, but also I didn’t realise how much you think on them. And if there are things in you that you’re already thinking or feeling, they can become incorporated in the trip,” Isak looks over and his smile skips a little too rapidly. He pauses.

Even swallows. He thinks: are you thinking about something sad? But then Isak raises an eyebrow, just the corners of his mouth turned up.

“I swear, the thoughts I was having about you,” Isak shakes his head. He thinks Isak’s smiling more at himself than anything. Even is entranced, caught on every word. He remembers: the joint. He hits it.

Isak takes it from his fingers with careful skill. He inhales sharply enough that the simmering ember of the joint blazes into a cherry, and the smoke that blooms from his mouth is thick and opaque.

“What thoughts, what thoughts?” Even can hardly stand it. “You mustn’t pause like that in a story, it’s rude.”

Isak scoffs, “Rude!” as he tokes again. Then, passing it to Even, he continues. “Anyway, this [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8R_3mXZBsuU&t=454s) comes on. The long song. I became totally lost in it, and everywhere thoughts of you were coming at me. All my insides felt like they were lit up and moving, but instead of feeling unnerved by it, I was floating in like, this hemisphere of ‘Even,’” he laughs.

“It was just. Everything about it. The lyrics, the sound, the memory of you listening to him before. I realised my moment was upon me and it positively thrilled me. I mean, I was writing down mushroom-induced epiphanies everywhere. I made a list of all the dates I wanted to take you on. And what flowers you may like, for fuck's sake, can you believe it? Flowers! Flowers. _Honestly_. The song seemed to go on forever, until we were all silent, just listening. The neighbours a few floors above had a string of lights from their balcony, and I kept watching them in the wind, thinking to myself how you hang your lights in your room, and about the song, and I had the most profound thought. It made me realise all over again that it is the right time.”

“What was the right time?” Even asks. Cheeks warm in the heady moment, balanced on the tip of Isak’s tongue.

“The right time to come back to Oslo,” Isak explains.

“And what was the thought?”

“I wrote it to you,” Isak says. “In the letter.”

“In the first or the second?”

“The second,” Isak identifies. But Even knew that already.

“But really it’s the seventh, if we’re counting all of them.”

“No,” Isak shakes his head. Even is surprised by the defiance on Isak’s face. “I count that separately. That’s not in response to your postcards. That is just to you.”

“Right. Funny because I thought of it that way too,” Even admits. He sees Isak nod out of the corner of his eye.

“Your first letter,” Isak says this with gentleness. He mouths the next words before he says them, “From me, to you.”

Even doesn’t know what to say exactly. He swallows. What he does know is that he is incapable of taking his eyes away from Isak’s languorous form on the bed, his unwavering mouth when he smiles. He’s directing it towards Even. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to that.

Finally, Even does have to say something. “You know what this proves?” he finally asks. He’s met with only the shake of his head. “I knew you were a romantic. All this time I’ve known it deep down.”

Isak giggles. He swats Even lightly in the knee, knocking the joint out of his fingers and then swiping it for himself. He eyes Even as he lights it. He’s flirting, Even realises. It’s quite possibly the most delightful feeling Even knows.

Isak smirks around the joint. “We did end up going for a walk through Tempelhofer Feld. I just remember thinking, how beautiful the fucking plants and grass and shit were. I was pretty far gone. Mahdi kept walking ahead with Martin and together they’d sing the same few verses of this [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sLWpTooEttI) and now I cannot listen to it without thinking of that night. I think by the end Magnus fell asleep in the park, he was so knocked out. And then it was just me and Jonas who were really still _awake_ awake. Earlier he became the most impossible little comrade, getting excited and shouting about how he’s going to ‘change the fucking world, man, with ideas.’ But after he was pretty nostalgic. Especially about last time we had a night like that one, and how great it was for him to finally visit me in Berlin.”

“Yeah. Of course,” Even nods along. “I picture it so clearly, actually. First, Jonas getting indignant and excited. Then more emotional. He’s pretty astute.”

Isak side eyes him. “Exactly.”

Even asks, “What was Jonas nostalgic about? Does it upset you to talk about home, to reminisce?”

A complicated expression appears on his face, with an underlying intensity that shouldn't surprise Even but does. “It depends on the topic. Before, it wasn’t even an option. I just didn’t want to talk about it with anyone. Now, after mamma passed, I think.... I don’t always know how I'll react. It’s good to talk about it, but also, sometimes not always necessary to dwell. There are good and bad times here,” Isak pauses to lick his lips. He is looking at the ceiling. “Like any place. But he...Jonas was like, more so….”

Even kills the last of the joint, ending it in a cup Isak pointed out. He watches Isak look out the window, lost in a thought. His jaw a defined edge. A curl or two grazing his forehead. More man than boy now. It feels almost impossible to accept, despite the very real evidence lying right in front of him.

“Basically, the thing about Jonas...he was pretty mad at me for leaving. He’d gone all wistful. How did he phrase it? ‘Your absence was a void. Here’ He’d pointed to the space behind his shoulder. I remember thinking, what would Even make of this?”

Even considers it. He thinks of finding Jonas and Isak in the canteen, or after class, or walking along to a party. Always shoulder to shoulder.

“It makes sense,” Even says.

Isak nods. “ Course, part of it was the shrooms, but a part of it wasn’t. I knew he really felt that. And all I felt was shame at first. Because I know what abandonment feels like, and it doesn’t feel good. I told him how sorry I was. We…” he shrugs, rummaging for a word. “Aired it all out.”

“All you felt was shame?” Even’s voice comes out all gravelly. He tries to clear it. “At first?”

Isak shakes his head. “No. I mean, yes. Shame, but also love. I told you, I thought everything was beautiful. Jonas included. I was happy he was there with me in that moment. I remember being so grateful he came to Berlin. I knew that we had the potential to heal - not just our friendship - but all things in the world are in constant motion of existence, be it suffering or pleasure or whatever, and that idea astounded me then. It still does. And I felt so settled in that place. Jonas turned to me at some point and he looked at me very seriously, and he said ‘I hope you remember to allow yourself joy.’”

Even is made soft by this sentiment. He feels an oncoming surge of unnecessary guilt and he mentally sidesteps it, not wanting to dim the moment. Instead he brushes his knuckles against Isak’s. Watches Isak’s gaze fall to their hands.

“Very profound, Jonas is,” Even nods. Inside he is moved by these sentiments, guts twisted and squirming. His awe does not dissipate as image after image swirls inside of his head. Ignited. A muddled green-yellow grass, dirt in places. A hazy grey-purple sky as night crept ever closer in. Isak and Jonas huddled close together, even though they could sprawl, admitting the worst of it, suspended in their altered reality. Even understands now. Everything was beautiful, he’d said. And nothing hurt.

They’re both fairly stoned. Even feels the day wearing on his body, though his mind is positively awake in this environment, alert and alive. Isak’s smile remains like a permanent fixture on his face, alternating between teasing and outright gushing. He can’t get enough of him, lying like this on the bed. The room is encased in amber light. Neither of them make a move to turn on a light, even as the shadows start to creep in.

Isak rolls over and up on to his knees, crowding in close above Even, running his hand through his hair and making sure it remains tucked behind his ears. He has a contemplative thought expanding across his face, tempered in his soft movements.

Even thinks they’ll kiss. But instead, Isak runs his thumb along the shell of Even’s ear and asks, “Would you like to hear a [song that makes me think of you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GhZdG3R77G0) \- one when I’m not tripping?”

“Yes,” is his immediate answer.

Isak nods. He turns to the window, and squats down to address the soundsystem. Even recognises the brand from one of Hemi’s semi-regular discussions of preferred music equipment. Isak pulls his phone out and plugs it in to aux cord lying on the floor.

“One of the perks of having Hans’ room,” Isak says as he fiddles with it. “Is the soundsystem. Man, this guy loves techno like a true Berliner. State of the goddamn art, this thing. And I can use it, so long as I don’t break anything.”

“Wouldn’t you break something by using it, though? Can’t break it if you don’t touch it,” Even points out.

Isak just rolls his eyes. “Lie down,” he instructs.

Even does, lying on the bed where Isak was just a moment before, his legs curling around the edge. He feels the bed dip next to him. Isak is close enough that Even can feel the hairs on his arm brush against his skin.

A bassline starts, followed by a neat, repetitive drum.

“This is my song for you,” Isak says quietly, and then he says no more, because the lead singer starts to sing a beat later.

A sense of impending euphoria captures him instantly: the crescendo of a drum hitting the cymbal signals it. The beat sways in focus, slowly, building on the edge, epicurean in it’s pacing. It reeks of sensuality, and longing, and a mounting tension. Even feels the warmth of a body next to his, the confusing smell of Isak and another person mixing, fresh cotton, new detergents. The simpering orange brown light floating in from the window, an expanse of brick wall obscuring the rest of the city. It doesn’t matter. They could be anywhere. His heady exhale of breath as his eyes shut of their own accord, and a second later, he begins to make out some of the lyrics. An electricity encaptures his attention again as the song starts to build, only to simmer out into a gust of quiet simpering against that recurring bass. Then, as the piano tinkles, and the full scale of sound - a _fullness_ \- returns, Even can pick out the underlying message in his words: there is no growth without grief.

Isak’s hand grips his, and Even is surprised by how clammy it is. It is an act that grounds him. The lead singer croons on and it’s understated yet yearning, just enough that Even is reduced only to feeling the riff turns into a cathartic, tempered release of sound. The drums arrive, and they create a beautiful swell that marks the return of this feeling. This boy, he thinks desperately, his mouth all screwed up, his chest heaving, as he weaves his fingers with Isak’s, and this is what it feels like, right, Even?

What does it feel like? Like falling in love again, and again, and again. Like a beautiful upswing, or a cymbal smashing, or the sweat now on Even’s hand. Who cares: everything that is Isak is Even in this moment.

Even can’t find it in him to speak. Instead he rolls over and tries to place what he wants to say directly into Isak’s mouth, in hopes that it makes it straight down to his heart. He can hear the small noise of surprise and then Isak physically becoming one with the kiss, his body melting and filling every one of Even’s crevices and concaves, down to their ankles overlapping and locking into place. Like they’ve known each other forever, and Even thinks, in this universe they just might.

And so what if he can’t help but demand Isak’s mouth? At least he’s aware of it. Certainly a little possessive, like he can’t help just letting tiny dark reflections of his desire bleed through. But then Isak just presses up into him in return, insistent, like he requires a certain type of attentiveness that Even is only too happy to provide. His tongue skimming along the underside of Isak’s, catching his bottom lip with his teeth. His hands combing through the ends of his hair, pressing into the base of his skull.

They kiss like honey drips between them: mouthfuls of it. A kiss that sits in a category all it’s own. Isak moves on, desirous and humming a little, kissing the corners of his mouth and down towards his jaw and then underneath it, nosing at it like he’s mid-investigation. Even’s hands come up to wrap around his shoulders and pulls him as close as they can be. Isak presses his cheekbone into the space under his chin, humming still, mouth a near burden on his collarbone.

“That is a beautiful, beautiful song,” Even says, kissing along Isak’s hairline, and pressing his cheek into the warm expanse of his forehead. How soft the skin feels there.

“Sounds like it could be part of a soundtrack, right?” Isak says. “I always listen to it when I’m on the U-Bahn. I imagine you in some pinnacle scene stealing scenario and this is what would be playing in the background.”

Oddly enough (or perhaps - not oddly at all) this is what touches Even the most, deep down into the pit of his gut where he feels the words settle. Isak in Berlin, sweat gathering in the dip up of his upper lip because it’s hot in June, thinking of Even with his eyes closed. A daydream away.

“I love it,” Even decides, pressing his cheek deeper into Isak’s head, until he knows they can both feel the pressure between them. “I love it so much. What’s it called?”

“Loveless,” Isak answers readily. No moves are made to extract himself from Even’s arms. “It’s some band I found online. I uh, actually made you a playlist.”

Even leans back, his face drawn up. He laughs a little and then stops.“You did?”

Isak peers up from where he’s blinking against Even’s neck, eyelashes fluttering every few seconds. He looks at Even with clear eyes, and grins despite his own efforts to remain serious.

“What!” he rolls his eyes again then sighs without elaboration. Even’s enjoying how Isak is looking at him, through his lashes, part bravado, part silliness, reminding Even so much of when they used to have these ongoing inside jokes that would last weeks. Some lasted longer than that.

Isak makes a face, his eyes bulging and eyebrows raised. “I listen to nice music. I could make a damn fine playlist. Like, this is _you_ were talking about. You literally just told me you ‘knew along I was a romantic.’”

“Well, of course you can make me a playlist. This _is_ me we’re talking about,” Even nods. He feels like he’s basking, unwavering, cheeks warm to touch. Isak’s close enough he’s all Even can really see. “I don’t mean it like that. I’m just over here swooning and I don’t know what to do with myself.”

Isak laughs again, and Even is granted a glimpse of the gap between his teeth, a sight he’s always treated with covet adoration. A moment to note. Then his mouth curls into a sneer and he’s back to teasing Even. “Well, get used to it. I can be suave. I can woo the Even Bech Næsheim. I’m not even fazed by your show of little faith. Like I said. I’m smooth, romantic, I have weed, and a great sound system. _Now_.”

Even just laughs, kissing Isak’s forehead, thumb resting near his temple and his palm aligning with the shape of his face.

-

TORSDAG 1:02

After the sun finally sets, and abandoned cartons of takeaway decorate Isak’s floor, Even feels the night spool unto itself. He shows no signs of leaving. Isak is certainly displaying no signs of wanting him to leave. After a while they leave the bed in order to refill their mugs, and in the kitchen Even crowds in against Isak, his height an advantage - and thank god, Even thinks, because the more he’s around this Isak, the more he has to come to terms that he’s not eighteen anymore. Isak looks a little bashful, like he isn’t sure that making out in the kitchen is something he’s allowed again. Even thinks, absolutely. Making out in the kitchen is a running tradition of theirs.

They go back to his room with linked fingers. Just one, actually, but it affects Even all the same.

Isak draws the shades half mass, “The light outside,” as if to explain it.

He turns on a lamp sitting with an orange coloured linen draped out over it , and goes to join Even on the bed. Even can’t help but watch him, taking all these moments like one never ending inhale. It’s been so long, he aches a little. The feeling arrives and encompasses him so much that it prompts Even to say it. _It’s been so long since I’ve had you like this._

There’s a little red wine on the corners of Isak’s mouth. “Like this?”

“You know, how we - ”

A quirk to Isak’s mouth, not quite a smile. More displeased. “Well, not _exactly_ like this.”

Before Even can say anything, Isak moves, and his thoughts race for one unbelievable second: have I angered him?

But he only returns shortly with a pack of Nag Champa, shaking a stick out and poking it into one of the holes in the bedside crate. Once lit, the smell hits Even almost immediately, and he watches Isak’s eye him without turning to look fully, older now but still a little innocent like Even remembers.

He thinks of when they used to do this all the time: one of their little evening rituals.

Even nods in agreement, and after one momentous lag, a switch is flipped. Action ensues in a flurry. He doesn’t know who does it first, but they shrug out of their t shirts and then their trousers and before Even knows it, they’re lying on their sides facing each other in their underwear. Symmetrical like twins, the muscle memory of their body language mirroring every detail, down to the cross of their ankles. Even looks at Isak in the dark, in the few blessed hours they’re given each night in June. The shade shutters only the street light partially, so that stripes light cast starkly across Isak’s profile. It mixes with the soft orange glow of the lamp across the room.

There is a composition here, Even thinks. Isak in black and white. Giddiness bubbles in his gut, basking, as they gaze upon each other like this. This is what they used to do all the time: the moments nobody else knew about. Lying together and talking, in any of the places they stayed at or lived in. Existing in the quiet together. He feels the clarity return, the soothing tide of affection swelling in him. For Isak, for his beautiful body. For the moment.

Finally Even brushes a few strands of hair off his forehead. Isak looks up, more relaxed than Even’s seen him in years, his eyes hooded, the last of their joint burning between his lips. They’ve smoked only two, a few cigarettes between them, in addition to more wine, and takeaway somewhere in between that.

“You know, I never expected to say this,” Isak breaks the slow drum of silence. “But I’m really glad I’m home.”

Even smiles at him, pursing his lips to the side. His toes slide over to touch just the underside of Isak’s heel. “It must feel a little unreal, no?”

“A little,” Isak admits. “If I try hard enough, it’s almost I could trick myself I’ve simply found myself in this bizarre parallel universe, one where we are lying together on a bed in Oslo. But then, that could be any of them, with any number of reasons behind it.”

Even reaches a finger to touch the middle of Isak’s bottom lip. He taps it gently, then his cupid’s bow, then the tip of his nose. Isak lets him. When he pauses his ministrations Isak continues, “But. This is our fold in the universe.”

“A fold?” Even runs his fingers over the length of his brow and then around the shape of his ear, to the underside of his chin. Isak holds still.

Isak nods his head. He lights up, even in the hushed tone of his voice, the shadows encasing his corners. “One part of my degree focuses mainly on philosophy, and while I did do _okay_ making it through the pre-requisite [German Idealism](https://www.philosophybasics.com/movements_german_idealism.html) class, I became much more interested in Phenomenology, and what it lead to was about three months I spent immersed with [Existentialism](http://aquestionofexistence.com/Aquestionofexistence/Existentialism.html). This class covered a lot but I got really involved with that school of thought specifically. It’s very - it used to be read as very radical for many things, among the fact it was non-religious and pro-communist at the time. And it has beginnings in Kierkegaard, and sometimes Nietzsche, though I often detest too many simplistic reductions based upon its philosophical forefathers and then celebrity like attention it’s received.”

Isak looks like he’s about to speak again, and then he pauses, slightly awkward. “Stop me if I’ve become boring.”

Even only shakes his head. He continues after a moment.

“My favorite is Simone de Beauvoir. I’m sure you know her. She’s probably the most accomplished Existentialist, though that title often is awarded to her longtime partner Jean-Paul Sartre. Of course he's fucking great too. But it's her text, The Ethics of Ambiguity. Ugh. I'll explain it later, what makes that book great specifically. But more broadly what I think is cool about Existentialism is the history behind it - here is this group of interconnected philosophers living through a time when there’s war and so much death and social and political change. And in a way I think it became a philosophical response to these times. I mean, there were a lot of interesting writers - like Albert Camus, for instance - and they did some really crazy shit as well? Anyway - I’ve been studying their work, how revolutionary and radical it felt at the time, how much it challenged traditional philosophy, how the war feels really profound in their work...for like, for months at this point - and I’m really early one morning before turning in an essay, when I start skimming through an chapter in a journal by Maurice Merleau-Ponty, who was an editor of a prominent paper, and a contemporary of Sartre,” Isak explains.

Even slows the long lines he was drawing down Isak’s side and listens. As he tries to remember every single name Isak is dropping, he realises he’s never heard him speak about his studies like this. He’s always been a good student, particularly in the sciences, but it was nothing like this. His voice visceral, his voice soaked in pleasure. Even knows this feeling so well: _Let me show you this thing I love. Let me tell you about this thing I can’t stop thinking about._ Isak with his own obsessions.

Even realises he’s paused for a moment longer. He hurries him along, “Go on, go on. So you’re reading Maurie - Merlot Pont or something - ”

“Merleau-Ponty,” Isak corrects. Albeit slightly sheepish, he waits only a beat. “So, anyway, Merleau-Ponty writes that the condition of one’s existence is to understand the compromise one has with the world. What he means by comprise is the aspects of existence which limit us are the very same which give us depth and perception. He wrote an entire text called the [Phenomenology of Perception](http://alfa-omnia.com/resources/Phenomenology+of+Perception.pdf). I...I’ve lost my thought,” Isak laughs, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. “No, no, I’ve got it - okay, so. He writes that consciousness, the body and, the world are all mutually engaged. It’s related to the compromise he argues we make.

“Because they are all entwined, the universe cannot exist simply in a singular or uniquely separate parallel - if I were to apply any of the multi-universe theory to existential rules, then parallel universes must exist across some sort of intersecting series grid which overlap. From what I can understand, it centres on the theory’s designation of the idea of Freedom of Choice and the role of direct action given to us as individuals. So for example, we could be lying on this bed in every single universe, this is true. But the choice in which we made to get to that bed could different in every single parallel. It’s more than just the curtains being yellow. Every choice we’ve made in our lives up to this point has had direction consequence on who we are today. For me, that means that there is no guarantee that in every universe we’re on the bed at all. And the reasons for this could be endless,” Isak sighs. Then he barrels on.

“So, I’m thinking all this before class started. I was already half delirious from staying up the night before. Then I’m reading and I stumble upon this argument Merleau-Ponty makes. Consciousness as simple pockets - or ‘folds’ in the universe. And when that consciousness ends - and this is what made me stop - the universe just smooths out. Like a quilt. It was best thing I’d ever read, I think. At least this year.”

“A fold in the universe,” Even feels himself nodding. “Smoothed out. But it never stops folding and smoothing out. For eternity.”

“Could be,” Isak nods, and Even’s  eyes drop down to his mouth, pink in the spotlight of the light outside. “It fit in well with my theories, which doesn’t often happen studying. My parallel universes thing becomes sidelined until there’s time. But anyway. I wrote it to you because I didn’t know who else to tell, and I couldn’t keep it to myself.”

Even shakes his head. No, that wouldn’t do. Isak shouldn’t have to keep anything to himself if he wants to share. “I suppose it makes it only this much more important, and special, that we are in this universe, making these decisions.”

“I agree. But it’s taking my idea of parallel universes that much further, in thinking that we are intersecting pockets of existence, defined by our every decision. Talk about pressure to get it right,” there’s a teasing tone lingering between them. “ But this is Existentialism for you. They talk about it all the time. The terror of having to choose is the point of human life, I suppose. Paradoxically, Existentialism also argues that it hardly matters at all, because eventually those pockets smooth out again. Energy absorbed and released.”

Isak’s eyes are glittery dark jewels in the shadows as Even processes what he’s saying. It's a little overwhelming. Isak lowers his head onto his arm where it’s folded up underneath him. Even can see the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows, the pink tip of his tongue peeking out to lick his bottom lip.

Even runs his fingers lightly down his arm like he was doing earlier, and feels his gut flip in delight at the way goosebumps rise following his touch. Isak parts his lips, like he’s gaping, or possibly about to say something. Perhaps he’s just caught in the moment like Even is. The apartment is silent. The city feels slept on, everything far away, everything distant from them. Even leans in until their breaths mingle, until Isak is pressing his mouth onto Even’s and rolling the lines of his body against him. Even’s hand comes up to direct the kiss, and Isak obliges with an ease that leaves Even feeling wanton.

It’s the sound that leaves his mouth, slightly muffled by Even’s teeth sinking down into the plush expanse of his bottom lip. The smallest, meekest of whimpers, barely escaping Isak, but it’s there, Even knows, and it sends his senses into overdrive. The next moment he’s rolled them over, looming above him, leaning back to stare down at him.

“What?” Isak lets out a noisy breath, reaching up to poke Even’s cheek. It’s only then Even realises he’s smiling.

“You,” he says. It’s a line, for sure, but all the same Isak melts all around him, his expression only a weak attempt at contempt. He lies below Even in display, his head tilted back, and if Even knows anything, anything about him at all, he knows that if his hands were to trail down his rib cage and across his hips, he’d find his back arched too. Not the only one wanton, then.

“You are swooning,” Isak realises and then he smirks, “You cannot deny it. I _am_ wooing you.”

Their bodies are tangle of bare skin, long limbs and the soft cotton of their nearly identical boxer briefs. Here they are in the dark. All the earth’s corners with their lights off. The edges sanded down and smoothed out. Even doesn’t give Isak the satisfaction of an answer. Instead, he leans down and gives him a kiss.

-

[TORSDAG 7:31](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VNpagR0ggkE)

Nearby, a door slams, causing Even to blink awake. Like all June mornings in Oslo, it's been light for hours already, and he imagines how much sun Jonas’s room must get, because every corner of Isak’s new room is engulfed by the light. Even rolls his ankles and sits on the side of the bed, staring out the window and at the wide expanse of red brick wall. There’s something about these blank spaces, he thinks. They’re all over this city.

Outside, Jonas is toeing off his shoes. He jumps nearly a foot in the air when he catches a glimpse of Even standing there. He must look a little obscured by the darkened hallway, a figure standing motionless in front of Isak’s door. Ominous in a way he doesn't intend to be.

“Sorry about the door,” he gestures to it. “Did I wake you?”

“Was already awake,” Even shrugs as he nears, aware now of how short Isak ’s sweatpants are as they ride up his calves. He grabbed whatever he could find off the floor. “It’s nice to see you again.”

Jonas smiles and looks as if he can’t believe he’s forgotten his own manners. He crosses the small living room to give Even a brief hug. “You as well. It's been a while, man. You look good.”

“Thanks,” Even nods, and then smiles. “You too. You have fun at the show?”

“The show? Oh, right,” Jonas nods, “Yeah. We did, actually. Of course keeping up with Eva meant there was no way I was in a shape to come home last night…”

“Ah,” Even acquises, a little awkward in his laugh. “I haven’t partied with Eva since high school, but I see her around Sjela sometimes. Always seems to have a good time.”

“Oh, I didn’t realise you go at Fri Sjel,” Jonas says, “Or, do you still?”

“Not as much. I used to work weekends there,” Even mumbles. “Once in a while they’ll ask if I can come in and take a shift. But mostly I am at Tim Wendelboe now.”

Jonas chuckles sardonically. “Never do anything half-way, do you?”

Even knows where he’s going with this. “You’ve heard Isak’s opinion on coffee in Grünerløkka, then.”

“Eh, maybe once or twice,” Even appreciates Jonas' small attempt at a joke. Then he shrugs and makes his way towards his room. At the door he pauses and turns to Even, a contemplative look across his face. “Whatever the reason is, I can already say how great it is having Isak back in Oslo again."

Perhaps it’s Even’s own imagination, the unmissable morning light, and Jonas’s ragged hungover form as he says it, his voice filled with gravel. Regardless, there’s a distinct edge of his tone - one that Even can’t quite decipher. It doesn't sound like a threat, but nonetheless it feels like a warning. Even nods. 

Back inside Isak’s bedroom, Even perches on the end of the bed and feels the draft waft through the small crack in the window. He sits in the deep quiet of the morning, each intake of breath a cool relief against the heat simmering under his skin. Eventually he pushes the window open farther, and with only a sidelong glance to Isak’s slumbering form, pulls a towel from a pile near the stereo.

Crossed legged on the towel, Even takes several breaths to centre his breath, eyes falling shut of their own accord. The errant tune of another Sufjan Steven’s song lingers in his brain, as does the subtle sound of traffic outside: men bustling around the Kiwi, children laughing. Distantly, he can hear the creaks of the apartment building, the drip drip of the condensation staining the paint another summer in a row; these old walls trap heat.

Another breath: in the nose, out the mouth. Embracing his entire diaphragm every time, with every new breath. Until the silence seeps in and takes every distraction one by one: no planes whirring far in the clouds, nor cars braking and accelerating down below, nor cyclists ringing their bell at crossing pedestrians. Then the bones of the room stop their creaking and moaning, the neighbouring murmurs and hums of everyday life halting. The repeating lyric _oh, be my rest, be my fantasy_ whirring in lazy circles in his head dwindles into mere sand pebbles, swallowed in the pocket of a seashell, garbled and warped and silent.

What remains is only the inhale; the returning exhale.

Underneath the sound of his own beating heart, underneath the nervous twitching and working of thousands of cells, a single steady noise exists, so soft it threatens to be swallowed by the great expanse of quiet now occupying all the corners of Even’s existence. He follows the pattern of inhales and exhales, matching it with his own. Where does it come from? He thinks he knows. Then he realises he’s thinking, and all the external noises return in full force, every reminder that the universe exists outside become clear and imminent. Moment over, meditative state lost. Now he's got to try and start over again.

Even doesn’t open his eyes for another two or three minutes, trying to recenter himself. A floor below, a door slams, jarring him again, until he takes a deep, billowy breath, more out of irritation than anything else. Focus, Even, he reprimands himself.

He thinks of Susanne’s reaction: you set the standard so high for yourself. Won’t you ever give yourself a break?

Faux-Susanne in his head doesn’t help assuage his mood. Even feels frustrated and therefore petty, and he hates that he feels petty: his routine has irrevocably changed due to the fact he did not sleep in his own bedroom last night, and therefore the entire schedule is off. Change can throw Even when he doesn’t anticipate it. His routines act like carefully structured walls around the parts of himself that don’t benefit his day to day.

A snide voice sounds in his head: you're being high maintenance. So what if you have to meditate somewhere else? It's just one day.

Be present, another part of his brain reminds him. Where are you right now?

As if on instinct, Even’s gaze is brought before the white light shining upon the cream duvets, the wash of brightness inspiring a positive undertone. Everything in this room, despite its half attempt at personal expression, seems cheerful. Every leaf on the giant philodendron is meant to be there, the dark viridian complimenting the yellowing wash of Che Guevara's backdrop. Not too far away, the postcards are pinned in the corner. But even they too appear like they belong. The only thing that feels out of place is Even. With himself. 

He turns back to the bed.

All the pieces of their sleep are evident: the warm sheets, the expanse of a pillow with indents left there, the gentle reminder of Isak’s steady breathing, his chest falling and rising underneath the duvet. He can’t resist crawling back in between the covers, his cold skin against Isak’s warm body. He basks in the feeling of it, the cosiness; because of course he does. He presses the cold tops of his thighs against the hot backs of Isak’s, stomach swooping when Isak leans back against him, shuffling closer.

Even thinks: this is where we are now, lying here in our own sweat, smelling like our own skin. It’s been a long time coming, being able to look at Isak like this.

He runs a finger down the line of Isak’s cheek, watching with a little humour as he twitches out of the way. It only encourages Even to do it again. And again. And again, until -

“Quit it,” Isak grumbles, before heaving a sleep-rumpled sigh, like he’s clearing his chest out. “I forget how early you wake up now.”

Even just hums, his fingers sneaking under the duvet again and skimming along the lines of Isak’s body. He looks angelic, lying in bed, in this pale room, under the white sunshine, duvet now pooled around him, his shoulders bare. Light dances on the tops of his cheeks, along the pillow creased lines in his face.

“I’m happy you’re still here,” Isak says after a few beats, and while it is no dramatic declaration, the vulnerability held in his admission sinks right into Even’s gut and doesn’t budge. He wants to hold onto this feeling forever. He wants to demand Isak to explain how he can evoke such feelings in the first place. Instead he folds his body over Isak's, even closer, leaning down to give him a kiss. Plush, the touch of lips against lips, the errant linger of morning breath, the slow way Isak comes alive under the kiss, and starts to kiss him back.

Even draws his fingers over invisible shapes on his face, taking pleasure in how Isak’s eyes flutter in response. “There’s no other place I’d be.”

Once, long ago, there was a time when Even would say that and Isak wouldn’t have believed him: that’s Even’s own fault, for breaking that trust so early on when they met. In retrospect, those early memories feel more like dreams, and they more like children, unsure and angry and innocent.

Now, their bodies grown and their souls a little worn in, all Even wants to think about is Isak ’s skin, the random freckles sprinkled here and there, the sharper tendons in his neck, the billowing curve of his bicep as he swings an arm around Even’s waist, drawing him close. They’re overlapping, Isak wedging his knee in between Even’s legs, the point of his hip bone digging into Even’s side. Even rolls him over in a typical power move so that they're spooning again, domineering and adoring as he kisses Isak, his tongue pressing into his mouth like it demands such exploration. They both taste like sleep, and it comforts Even more than he’d care to admit.

Even groans as he pulls back, running a hand through Isak’s crown and rolling a curl around his finger. Isak looks up at him. There is a flush along the tops of his cheeks that make him look feverish and startlingly young. His mouth parts, spit bubbling in the centre of his bottom lip, and Isak does not break eye contact as he drags his tongue along his bottom teeth, and then his lip.

Christ.

A flurry occurs: their limbs tangled, Isak's sweaty skin stuck to the sheets and the mattress and their bodies, and Even’s hands are everywhere, along the backside of Isak ’s taut frame, the bunches of muscles he finds now collected underneath his shoulders, the strange and infuriating broadness of his chest now. If he wasn’t so turned on by it Even would find himself a little annoyed. He remains as thin and lithe as when he was twenty.

Isak could easily flip them over, but instead he submits to Even, presses his bum flush against Even’s emerging erection, tilting his neck for a full display, his mouth bitten by Even’s teeth and his own teeth, tender looking and so red they could be bleeding. Part of Even is surprised; he certainly feels like he’s been cut open. This visceral excitement, bubbling and bubbling, the coil of his impending orgasm tensing and heightened in his stomach. His arm reaches around to keep Isak close against him and he grasps Isak fully, mouth sucking a blossoming hickey into his neck, right in the fleshy part of his shoulder, where the tendons meet.

Rutting against Isak, their bodies at once in tandem and lead astray, wicked and wild as they thrash together with little care towards finesse. Isak pants against his open mouth, neck twisted to reach him, churning out these whimpering sighs, half begging, half something else entirely: Even think he’s only heard him make that sound in a dream. Or a dream within a dream.

Even changes the angle enough so that Isak pulls taut, his entire body one unwavering line as he starts to come, his mouth searching for Even and kissing the sound right out of him. In a desperate flurry, Even yanks down both their underwear and finds the delightful pink flush of Isak's bum. He watches as his muscle contracts when he starts to jerk himself off, desperately, unable to draw his eyes away from where Isak is still recovering, little aftershocks running through him. The light hits his shoulder blade, catches every shadow along the nobs in his spine. This beautiful boy, he thinks, coming undone for me. Even comes over his fingers, watching with satisfaction as he spills all over Isak ’s backside, down his bum, between the cleft of his cheeks.

They both seem to relax at the same time, dazed by their own unexpected ferocity. An incorrigible smile draws over Isak ’s face, like a spooling thread. For a few minutes, it is just their breathing, the unmistakable sound of birds chirping, the stillness of the early morning beginning to wane as the world around them wakes up.

Then: “I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever make a move.”

Even frowns and raises his eyebrows. Well. This isn’t what he expected. “ _You_ were the one who told me you wanted to take it slow."

Isak clears his throat awkwardly, never mind that his ass his cover in Even’s come and their shared sweat. He flops over onto his side and props his head up on his arm, his tone a little curious. “I said that partially assuming you’d ignore it and go on ahead.”

Even thought about that too. An echo to a former self of his, one who often didn’t respond to boundaries and rules the way other people did, instead catching a tide of Romanticism and becoming carried away. Who was insecure enough to also dangled his girlfriend of four-years alongside him while he tried to figure out if he was brave enough to be with Isak instead. And really, it makes sense that he thinks this. Isak reacts similarly. It was Isak after all, who arrived all of a sudden into Even's life, a little like sugar through a sieve, a single grain - a glimpse, of what was to come, and then nonstop into every damn crevice right into Even's heart, until it beat for him. That first time. Isak knew Even shouldn't kiss him - that things were complicated. That it didn't mean they'd necessarily be together. Isak didn't care. He wanted too. He always kissed Even back. And the second time - this time Isak pursued him, and kissed him, too - 

“Well...” Even counters, "I mean, I get that. But I thought - I don't know what the hell 'slow' means to us anyway. But I was trying to be serious about you. I thought maybe it was a boundary. Or you were saying something to me implicitly that I should...You know. Well, I was trying, anyway," he shrugs a little, and then, "To be a gentleman."

His smile falls incrementally, considering. “You are a gentleman. I think - I mean, I was kind of talking to me too.  I didn't want to fuck anything up. It's better to savour it than rush through something with your eyes closed still. "But if - I'm sorr- " 

Even can't help it, “No, don’t apologise. Really, don't." Then what Isak says sinks in, and he wonders what he could say next. Sometimes Isak says things without realising exactly the astounding nature of it. It compels him. "And anyway, I'm frankly surprised, what with you over here, writing me love letters and playing me songs and wooing me with philosophy, that we lasted this long. We must really be gentlemen. Seriously. Get me a top hat and call this a courtship already."

" _Even_ ," Isak groans playfully, and he's smiling up at him, just the soft curl of his lips, lids low and his freckles arranging in a pretty constellation along the bridge of his nose. “I regret ever saying anything, then,” he muses.

Even sniffs playfully and pulls the towel from on the floor to clean himself up. When he’s satisfied, Even moves onto clean Isak without a second thought, down his thighs, his bum, carefully palming his balls, tenderly, they're still sensitive - and these ministrations milk a deep red blush out of Isak; blooming in his cheeks, down his neck  and spreading through his chest like a fever as he watched Even. Even kisses him then. Tongue and all, and pulls a little sheepish grin out of him too.

“The most gentle man,” Isak whispers, and Even wonders if he’s meant to really hear it at all. The way Even catches Isak still smiling at him out of the corner of his eye makes him think not.

-

FREDAG 10:04

After yesterday, it hardly suits Even to stay cooped up in his apartment. He doesn’t work until Saturday, and the girls are both strangely absent this morning. In a way, the quiet Even would have at one point coveted above all else, which once gave him so much refuge, now feels stifling. Perhaps it is because everything remains the same as he left it: the Schiele print hanging by the balcony, the few yellowed leaves of his ficus tree curled up on the floor, the piles of different papers Even has stacked at the foot of his bed. A stack of cold pressed 300GSM for watercolours, another pile of clear transfer paper. The photo he found the other day of Isak in his red beanie sits near the windowsill now, and he watches as the sun breaks through the clouds and creates a glare on top of it.

He feels the course of his summer is irrevocably changing, and he is powerless to stop it. The night in Isak ’s new apartment feels like the beginning of something Even cannot yet name.

His mind feels like it’s competing in several different races at the same time, in a exciting and tempting combination which leaves him unable to decide what he wants to do first: does he text Isak a litany of small love letters, or go to the studio to create and dwell amongst his paints, or sit and rifle through some of his old art to see what may inspire him? Does he tell the girls what is really going on? He feels finally brave enough to face their reactions, whatever they may be.

Today feels like the first day in a long time that he woke and the sun was not in the sky. It remains buried underneath layers of clouds, enough so that he went for a run along the Akerselva river early, pushing himself to stay at a consistent pace, staying close enough that he could feel the cool air emanate off the river. By the time he had finished, full of endorphins and thankfully a little spent, the city had started it's usual bustle and the morning rose to fruition.

In the end, going to studio wins above all else. He's pent up here, and this energy needs to go somewhere. He feels his brain settle into his decision, and he tries to find a centre in himself once he’s in the shower, feeling the steam burn his lungs as he takes deep, mediated breaths.

Let’s not slip now, Even, he tells himself with only a slight admonishment. Waking up in this kind of mood is so tantalising, but he needs to be careful with becoming caught up in the energetic tide. Mania is a temptress, and Even feels lush in this feeling of love and brightness, his mind incapable of staying away from thoughts of Isak in the white duvet, coming around Even’s fist, his mouth searching for purchase, and importantly, for Even.

Another deep breath. He thinks of Susanne: Remember your limits, Even. Respect those limits.

He takes the 13 and then the 2 at Jernbanetorget station, realising only after he’s transferred that more and more this station becomes less the tender spot it used to be, and it's painful associations dimming. Chateau Neuf arts department is currently run by a woman named Hedda, who Even met when he was first starting at UiO. It felt almost too advantageous, and certainly serendipitous: attempting to find a private space to produce work (without paying a separate rent) created an array of anxieties for him, until one day there she was, in charge of one of the oldest student societies in Oslo, with a plenitude of studio space to spare. Though Hedda is nearly fifteen years Even’s senior, her long silvery blonde hair and intense, dark eyes, always critical and careful as she surveyed her surroundings enticed Even immediately. In other words, they had just clicked.

She’s an artist in her own right, and when she had shown Even her work, he had realised that his feeling about her had been correct. From then, they had a embarked a relationship that blurred the lines between friend, lover and protégé: sleeping with her had been only part of it. She is beautiful, and he admired her as an artist. For him, there was little reason as to why not. She inspires him. The girls hadn't exactly seen it the same way. Be careful, Even, they'd say with only a hint of reproach. It had irked him, but not enough for him to say anything.

Both Mari and Hemi had kept their comments to a minimum, for which Even always appreciated when it came to the people he liked to sleep with. He always wondered, distantly, if they thought him too headstrong, or reckless, or immature, but neither of his best friends ever articulated they ever felt that way. There was only ever hints, or Even's own second guessing that led him to these conclusions. It is difficult for Even to ask for their opinions: he’s always worried he’s not going to like what they’re going to say, and it will poison whatever decision he’s made with lingering disappointment.

The main studio is accessible after two, but Even's had a key to the back of the building for about a year now. Behind the door a narrow, steep staircase not accessible from the main building led up to the top floor, where another small key let in him to an old office that Hedda no longer has use for. She had presented it to him one day after his exams last year, like a gift. It had been the last time they had slept together, on the settee. 

Inside, on what little wall space exists, hang six of the ten paintings he is working on for next year: his Autobiography of Red. To the left a row of six windows allowed plenty of light and led to a small ledge where he could smoke when he pleased, and to the right a well used settee and desk crammed into the corner when Even felt he needed a break from standing in front of his work.

His project still needed manicuring; medium wise it is all over the place. Part of it comprises of oil paintings, inspired by his favourite artists, both traditional and contemporary. A reinvention of Rousseau’s reconfiguration of the Surrealist movement in [Carnival Evening](https://www.gallerydirect.com/art/product/henri-rousseau/carnival-evening); another of Malcolm T. Liepke's earlier work, specifically his piece [Two Friends](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/2f/35/7c/2f357ca097e43cf2165b585adb3deacb.jpg). Two of his paintings operate under tenements of post-impressionism, including his long-time favourites, Toulouse-Lautrec and Cézanne.

The second major element of this project were constructed in installation pieces, shots and dispositions borrowed from his list of directors who inspire him, including an near-direct recreation of an Ingmar Bergman piece titled God Is Silent, where the clocks are backwards and only silhouettes are present in order to evoke a sense of dreaming and darkness that only the human subconscious may summon. Even thinks there is no greater evocation of the 'brain-is-alone' feeling than what Bergman creates.

Of course,  _Red_ in the sense of both the colour and the ideas attached to the colour lies in the centre of everything. Even can’t exactly pinpoint when his fascination with the concept of Red began, only that it started long before his attended university. Perhaps when he met Isak: after all, it is the first time a colour undertook a new meaning in itself. He hadn’t realised what these associations were back then, but now he knows they existed. That maroon snap back that sat in his room all weekend after he and Isak had hung out the first time; the red hoodie Isak insisted on wearing until the edges were frayed and the zipper stopped working. The night in the snow, when Even turned twenty and he had convinced Isak finally to sit for a portrait between the silence and the trees, the red beanie becoming a cult object of fascination for him once he had returned to the city to print them.

It was the idea of Red that Even kept returning to. Visually it is alerting, rich, unnerving, warm. In a darker, more organic sense, he also associates it with blood. Blood pouring from Isak ’s nose; blood dripping into the snow; blood running down the concave of his elbows when he tried to complete suicide as a teenager. Blood underneath cheeks, rushing, rising, warm to touch. A reminder: we’re alive. We’re alive so long as we’re Red.

A text interrupted his thoughts, he had only barely managed to shift through a few different mood boards he had comprised for his seventh portrait; this time, a mixed media homage to [Julie Verhoeven](http://www.julieverhoeven.com/drawings/), pencil and crayon and various consistencies of vintage red paper in order to create a more unified collage. He had come upon the idea whilst explaining the concept to his mother: Red came to mean change, too. An evolution of Red, just like the leaves Even had taken home with him as child and pressed into books. A red which signifies the circle of life and death, a continuum that he need no longer fear.

It’s Isak. Already his heartbeat starts to pick up pace.

Isak 11:36 / _u busy today?_

Til Isak 11:36 / _depends what you mean by busy. Currently i’m at the studio._

Isak 11:37 / _Ah, I see. Well, you know it's nearly the end of Pride, and I’ve missed all the other celebrations so i thought, if you wanted to go...Eskild & Noora will be there too, so if not, that is okay too_

Pride, of course: he had stupidly forgotten, in the daze of Isak ’s arrival back into the city, that it was the last week of June. He thinks back to the last Pride he and Isak attended, bringing about a smile that nearly hurts his cheeks as he stares down at his phone.

Another text causes his phone to nearly surge with as much excitement as Even feels. When it quits it's errant vibrating, he's able to read it fully.

Isak 11:39 / _I have plans tonight with the boys so I will likely miss the big party, but it would be cool if i could make at least one day. I heard there are a lot of[art vendors](https://www.oslopride.no/wp-content/uploads/katalog_single-page.pdf) there too_

He takes a moment to Google on his phone the program for the week, and to his inner delight, finds that Friday is the penultimate day for artists to display their work.

Til Isak 11:41 / _Absolutely. When would you like to meet?_

Til Isak 11:41 / _I just looked up that it's at Youngstorget. Shall I head there soon?_

Isak 11:43 / _That works for me. Though one of these days I’d love to come and see the studio, if ur open to that kind of thing._

Even didn’t realise that he is still capable of blushing from a text message; it’s been quite a while since anyone has reduced him to a tale-tell clutches of a crush. The feeling of giddiness, and the resulting gratitude of said giddiness inspires him. More than anything, it causes his heart to surge with tenderness and love again. He’s missed this feeling more than he can articulate, and now he feels like he’s swimming in it from every angle.

Til Isak 11:44 / _Trust me, I am open to it. One of these days you must. Why don’t we say an hour from now? I’ll just wrap up what i am doing here._

Isak only responds with a heart emoji.

-

[FREDAG 13:31](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cj-KhbR4ERQ)

They’ve spent nearly twenty minutes surveying only a quarter of the displays just off Youngstorget, and gradually both the heat and the crowds begin to rise in numbers. Even can’t decide what he’s enjoying more: looking at art, or looking at Isak looking at art. Unlike their time at the museum, now he considers nearly every piece, even taking the time to speak to some of the artists who are present, picking up on aspects of specific works. It catches Even by surprise in the best way.

Isak is wearing only a t-shirt again, but this one, to Even’s delight, has a seventies inspired rainbow adorned by a message in [Benguiat Caslon](https://fontsinuse.com/typefaces/7590/benguiat-caslon): TAKE THE CHANCE TO BE WHO YOU ARE. All afternoon, Even’s been meaning to ask him where he found it. For the first time, it’s actually warm enough to justify not having a light jacket or cardigan on hand, and Even watches as the sun catches the tan on Isak ’s forearms; how the muscles flex when he adjusts the canvas bag he’s carrying on his shoulder.

After they've finished a loop around the square, they run into Noora and Eskild, who promptly pulls out a small container of glitter and starts to douse Isak's cheeks and neck with it seemingly bypassing any pleasantries first. The energy is light and palpable, and though in high spirits, Even keeps waiting for Isak to protest, or at the very least roll his eyes at Eskild's excitable administrations. But it never comes. If anything, Isak seems more keen on Eskild’s attention than Even's ever witnessed before, all traces of reluctance that use to follow their peculiar friendship now refreshingly absent.

“Even!” Noora smiles, her red lipstick now a more orange-y hue than he remembers, her hair longer too. She’s grown into her face more, angular and beautiful and graceful, in a way that Even has come to recognise in Noora, though he’s never known her very well. She seems happy to see him regardless, and foregoes a more formal handshake to pull him into a hug.

“Noora!” He parrots back with real pleasure. “How nice to see you. It’s been so long.”

“Thank you,” she smiles, playing with a random lock of her hair absently. “How have you been? It really has been a while, hasn’t it? To think, it must have been before I went to Madrid that we last saw each other!”

“It really has been some time, hasn’t it?” he entertains, though truthfully he cannot remember exactly when he saw her last. Even can’t help himself when he says, “You look amazing!”

Noora laughs in a way that people who are often told this laugh; acknowledging the compliment with no surprise without appearing arrogant. “I could say the same for you! Have you gotten even taller? Will you ever stop growing?”

“Let’s hope at some point he does,” Isak jokes, smiling at Even and consequently causing his stomach to erupt with butterflies. “Otherwise kissing him will become an obstacle.”

“Just be glad that you kiss someone who is actually taller than you,” Eskild quips, assessing the final touches of his work with a kabuki brush against Isak ’s cheeks. He gives himself a once over with glitter for good measure. “My neck often aches from bending down, and it becomes a real pain, let me tell you.”

Isak only shrugs with a small laugh, like he's heard this already. They circle around the exhibitions again with Noora and Eskild, allowing Even to take in some of the pieces he’s hadn't seen yet. They chatter and giggle amongst themselves, finally exiting the square in search of something to eat and a little relief from the sunlight. 

“So,” Eskild pulls up next to him, sipping his iced latte with a tilt of his head. “A little birdy told _moi_ that you're working at Fri Sjel.”

“Surely you don't need a birdy to tell you I work there. I'd probably die from shock if you've never been yourself,” Even grins with some incredulity.

“Oh I have, I've just never seen you there on the nights I've gone. Don’t tell anyone this, as I have a reputation to protect, but I'll admit I may have slowed down in the scene in my elder years. I miss having a bunch of kids around like those old Kollektiv days. You all kept me young.”

“More like you kept _us_ young,” Isak teases as he comes back out of the shop, passing Even a juice. He looks at Even with a raised brow, “Don’t take what he says too seriously. By slowing down he means that he goes out only once every weekend instead of Thursday to Tuesday.”

“Still admirable,” Even says. “That’s more than me most weekends, anyhow. All my visits to Sjela are purely for leisure now. Between Tim Wendelboe and university, I had to cut my commitments down a little.”

They start to walk down a narrow alley, a welcomed reprise from the crowds on the main roads. Isak skips ahead with Noora, and Even watches his figure as he goes, the architecture of his back and broad shoulders. The capped sleeves of his t shirt dig in a little, as if barely able to contain his biceps. It makes Even wish he brought his camera along.

“Tim Wendelboe? Ah, you must have known Anna then! She worked there up until she left for Brisbane!” Eskild says. “She is friends with a couple I knew from our university days. She’s so fun.”

“I did! She is amazing and we all miss her. Now we have Amir, who came over from Fuglen. Very chill guy,” Even wishes he could capture how he felt in this moment, not simply to dwell on the romanticism of spending a sunny day with Isak in Oslo during Pride, but more for the fact of how normal it felt. With a spark in his gut, Even realised that he could be looking at his future here: one that, for the first time in a long time, included Isak.  
  
They emerge through the bottleneck of the alley and into the crowds again. Isak walks ahead a little, pointing out something Even can’t see to Noora. For a moment they're swallowed by all the other people, a thousand different rainbow paraphernalia filling up his view. Next to him, Eskild changes pace.

“Are you happy he’s come back?” he asks with a sidelong glance.

Even wonders if he’s about to be on the receiving end of a big-brother spiel. He finds he doesn’t mind: Eskild has always preferred to take the route which involves the least amount of conflict.

“Of course,” Even nods, and then realises that perhaps it isn’t so obvious to everyone. “I mean, I was sad to hear about his mother. It wasn’t great when he came back in January. But now, it’s like...I’m not sure how to describe it. But it just feels right.”

“Isak hasn’t ever had it easy,” Eskild hums in agreement, and Even feels a little touched by the warm look on his face. “But he’s made the best with what he has.”

“That’s true. I know you - I just want you to know, that we’re trying to figure it out again. This isn’t something I am taking for granted. That last thing I want to do is hurt him.”

Eskild relaxes; it must have been the right thing for Even to say. Then he smiles, a little coyly, in a way that Even's always privately envied.

After a moment Eskild says, “you know, I don’t think I could have predicted this. And I am a guru after all, so predicting my friend’s love lives is basically my job. But as per usual - Isak always finds ways to surprise me. He’s done a lot of growing up. He’s no longer just my baby gay.”

“He has,” Even agrees. “I know you were there for him when no one else was. And I know part of him is grateful you were there when he came out. And to be honest, I am too. Not just for Isak. For me as well.”

Eskild claps his hands, rolling his eyes in an effort to lighten the mood. “You’re going to make me tear up and ruin all my hard work. This mascara is not waterproof.”

Even laughs. “No? I would have taken you for a waterproof kind of a guy.”

Eskild shakes his head. “The last time I used waterproof nearly half my lashes fell out. That’s what I get for not using an oil based makeup remover. Oh! Look, Isak has found a giant bubble wand. Come on, we should probably get a picture for the scrapbook.”

-

FREDAG 20:22

If Even thought he started Friday in relatively high spirits, then it is no comparison to how to feels after spending the day with Isak at Pride. It's as if every nerve ending under his skin is tingling, alight with excitable joy and nearly tripping him up with the swell of emotion that threatens to spill out of him. They had departed from Eskild and Noora sometime that afternoon, and Isak had taken him by the hand to lead him away from the celebrations into a much calmer nearby park, his face now decorated not only with glitter and sparkles, but a rainbow heart, drawn by a girl in a booth they had passed on the street. He looked adorable, and beautiful, so much so that Even made him stop so he could photograph him with his Iphone. And Isak - Isak hadn't even protested, instead stealing the moment with a wide, breathtaking smile, his entire row of teeth on display, the apples of his cheeks flushed and happy. 

Eventually, after lying around in the grass and idly making out, Isak had checked his phone after a series of incoming texts and announced that he had to attend a pre-game with the boys before they went out later. He lingered anyway, holding Even's face in his hands and kissing him again and again, each one growing more affectionate. He made no mention of whether or not he was going to remove the makeup he had acquired, or if it so much as bothered him walking around in public like this, outside the safety bubble of Pride around them. He couldn't help it: Even felt slightly stunned at this transformation in him, at times anxious that it was merely an act Isak put on. Every time that cynical thought had intruded back into his head, another voice, defiant and amorous in turn picked it apart: You know him, Even. Isak is no master of lying. Everything you see is true. Trust your eyes. 

Importantly, trust Isak. 

He had to resolve that he wouldn't skip all the way home, though he felt like that and more. Even paused on every street corner to bring up the photo of Isak smiling on his phone again, eyes crinkled in a lovely tenderness that belied how happy he was in the moment. Every time Even thought: there's the evidence right there, that it was real. All of it was real. His heart swells every time he thinks about the events of earlier, circling around his head over and over again. This entire week has set his life on fire. He welcomes it. The flames in his head feels just like falling in love. 

Inexplicably, he thinks of the last line of _You are Jeff_ by Richard Siken. It's been so long since he's been inspired to think of poetry. It's been so long since he's thought of anything like this at all. He wants to write every last line down for Isak, pack each separately in little envelopes, and leave them around the city for him to find. This is how often I think of you, he would say. Every time I turn a corner. Every time I stop at the light. You're right there, in the forefront of my brain.

 _but he reaches over and_  
_he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your_  
_heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you_  
_don’t even have a name for._

When he arrives back to the apartment, he finds Mari sitting out on the balcony, her feet leaning against the railing. Without a moment's hesitation, he goes to join her.

"Hey, you," she smiles when she sees him. He realises, with a twinge in his gut, that she seems forlorn again. "You want to smoke?"

"Of course, Mim," Even smiles, patting her on the shoulder with a touch of consolation. He gives her a warm smile, which she attempts in return. It feels forced and watery, and just as he was soaring a moment before, now he finds his mood sinking already, like a light set on a dimmer. In his room, he gathers up his weed and a paper to roll with when he spots an envelope on his desk, the familiar neat slant of handwriting causing Even's gut to flip. Even before he grabs hold of it he already knows what it is.

The second letter. 

For a moment he thinks: fuck it, I need to open this now. But as soon as the thought assails him, the image of Mari's weak attempt of a smile and the obvious worries that were eating at her appeared, and with great reluctance he placed the envelope in the drawer for later. He already experienced one the best days he's had in a while; he doesn't need to read it right this second. If Mari wants to smoke, then she must really have something playing up her mind.

Below, Sofienbergparken is still filled with small clusters of people, some evidently coming from or going to Pride still, their rainbow themed apparel evident even from their viewpoint. Even taking his time to roll and Mari fiddling with music on her phone, and if he didn't know Mari so well he'd feel the quiet is almost uncomfortable. Instead, he lights the joint and waits for her to speak. When she finally does, it's after she's toked, her eyes a little wet from coughing. 

“What is it like, to come out? Or to know you weren't straight?”

Even considers it. His mother.

“I had a childhood friend,” Even finally says. “We grew up together, back when Bjølsen was a pretty quiet neighbourhood and my mother first opened her practice there. I was around a lot in the summers, always trying to evade her watchful eye. Well, it wasn't too hard, because there was only so much she could do when she was working. I was an only child, and curious as hell."

Mari brings the joint up to her lips, a blurred quality to her mouth as she listens to what he's saying.

“Anyway, I eventually found someone to play with. He lived in the area, like I said. During the winter we went to our different schools, but during the summers we’d spend a lot of time together. By the time I was 14, I developed a crush.

“I had my first real bout of anxiety, I think. Believe or not, I actually lived a pretty carefree, worry-less childhood. Anyway, I confessed to her what I thought was horribly distressing at the time, these feelings I had for this friend. I demanded to know why I was feeling this way - and she just told me ‘Even, this is only a crush. And it is fine to have a crush on him,’ and then we had lunch and I asked her a bunch of questions and she answered all of them and she said if I didn’t believe her, we could look it up together.”

“Was it requited?” Mari hums a little around her words, peering at Even through the smoke wafting in her eyes. 

“Well, it was and it wasn’t,” he stifles a sigh. It's been a long time since he's thought about any of this. “There was always a great amount of affection between us. And we did remain friends, pretty much until I left to go travelling.”

He takes the joint from her, wondering what to say next. Does he leave it there? Even knows that he can't, though for a moment it feels tantalising. But it isn't the whole story.

“I wish that was my coming out story,” he grimaces. “Unfortunately it kind of spiralled when I went to Bakka. I met Sonja when I was 14, that same summer. We were friends and then one day we started like - I don’t know, messing around, and we thought well, maybe we should date. And it was fun being with her - we loved each other. But then I made new friends my second year in Bakka and there was another boy - who, I might have told you about. Mikael. Well, it all kind of,” he makes a movement with his hands to demonstrate combustion. “Just. You know that story.”

“Yeah, I do,” Mari nods. “But what I mean is... I guess what I want to know is what it _felt_ like. Didn't you suddenly feel like you didn't even know who you were anymore? Didn't the world feel different as well?”

Even ponders this: Did the world feel lighter? If it were only that simple. At least he didn't have to hide it from himself anymore. Secrets like those are especially heavy. The feeling of affirmation and reaffirmation: this is who I am. It reminds him of a spool of thread, constantly running. Or a burst of heat in the centre of his chest, positively thrumming with - what would he call it ? Incandescence? Iridescence? His body, possessed by light?

“It’s - I don’t know how to say it without sound cliché,” he says, “but it’s different for everyone. I mean, for me, I had two competing feelings.”

Mari motioned for the joint. Even passed it.

He continues, “I was dating Sonja for such a long time that my sexuality was completely sidelined. For me, and therefore everyone else too. It never felt like the right time to bring it up. It always felt like people we're going to call me a fraud because I was dating a girl - or worse, think that I couldn't like both Sonja and boys too. Instead, I was in love with the idea of love and pretty much possessed by it. I think it made me overconfident, though that could have been the mania as well. Sometimes looking back it's hard to decipher, in those early years, what I really felt and what I thought I felt. I think that's what - well, of course, aside from being bipolar - pretty much incited me to run with this idea about Mikael. I was totally convinced love could save everything.”

He sighs. The last person he probably explained this was Isak, years ago. In a way, feels like going through old storage files,  blowing dust off these buried feelings.

“But, on the other hand, coming out in the fashion I did - being manic intertwined along with it - it was first time I really hated myself. After I tried to kiss Mikael - well, I've told you. I was depressed for months. I tried to take my own life. Then when I started to come out of that darkness, Sonja thought the entire sexuality thing was a phase. I mean, in a way I can't blame her. No one could understand why I was acting the way I was. I didn't really understand it either. When I left Bakka I thought: date your girlfriend, keep your head down, and graduate. Just do those things. Forget about being bisexual - or pan-sexual - or whatever else. It wasn't even so much as shame of being queer as it was shame for who I was entirely. Shame from my diagnosis. Mostly, I was tired of being me."

“I'm so sorry, babe. You’re so strong, though,” Mari murmurs, passing him the joint back. “And people - at uni or work, we all admire you so much. You're almost so caring and kind to people that they don't know what to do with all the attention. Sometimes it’s a little insulting how lovely you can be actually. Even though I've known you for two years, I admit that I'm still surprised to think there was a time where you didn't want to be Even. If anyone is their own person, it’s you.”

Even just smiles. “Weed makes you sentimental.”

It's the first real smile from her of the evening. He finishes his thought. "Anyway, I couldn't exactly follow my own rules anyway. Because I left Bakka and started Nissen only a couple months later. And within the first week, I met Isak. So."

“Can I ask you one more thing?” Mari asks, her profile catching a simmering glow of evening sunlight. “You told me that you were in a similar situation to me. With Madds and Liesel.”

"In some ways, kind of," Even nods. 

“How did you deal with leaving Sonja to be with Isak, even though he wasn’t ready to come out yet? Or maybe you were the one who wasn't ready - I don’t know - one of you. How did you deal with that?”

“Well, context,” Even says. “I don’t want to speak on Isak’s behalf about his sexuality. His parents were pretty religious. I think we actually had really similar feelings about ourselves, but at different times and about slightly different things. I was a little bit older. I had to own my sexuality, both because I had outed myself so publicly anyway, and because I felt like I owed it to him. To be the example. To show him we were worth the risk."

"Yeah, you always manage to do the right thing for everyone, Ev," Mari hums. "Self-sacrificing. I just....I took your advice. Liesel and I talked and I thought it went great - she told me she really wanted to be with me and that she was just scared of the fall out. She doesn't want to hurt Madds, you know? I understand that. Then we agreed we were going to meet for Pride today," Mari swallows, her fingers picking on a loose thread on the hem of her top. "Well, not only did she stand me up, but I saw a photo of them later on Instagram up at Madds' family cabin, with a bunch of our old friends." 

Even feels sympathy well in him. "Mari," he says with earnest, reaching over to place his hand over her's. She sniffles, but otherwise remains still and composed. "Mari, I am so sorry."

"Yeah, me too," is all Mari says. "I wish it turned out differently."

"There is still time," Even says. "It took Isak and I few times to get it right. Liesel may realise what she's missing yet."

"That's true," Mari nods, and with a jolt of sadness sparking in Even's gut, he watches as  her eyes started to well with tears. "I don't know. You guys made it work for a while. But he ended up breaking your heart anyway. So maybe it's not even worth it, in the end."

His gut clenches again. Her bottom lip trembles, and Even scoots closer to her, thankful his long arms are capable of wrapping her up into a hug. "I'm sorry, Mim," he murmured into her hair. "Listen. This will pass, like everything else does. Do you want to go in and watch a movie? I'll let you pick whatever you want. You shouldn't spend your Friday night upset like this."

Mari regains herself, wiping her eyes. She peers at Even with tear stained cheeks and a small, downtrodden smile. Her hair hangs around her face, looking just like one of her favourite [Alexandra Levasseur](https://alexandralevasseur.com/2017) portraits she keeps pinned to her bedroom wall. "You're right. You're right. Thank you, Ev. I don't know what I'd do without you, honestly. Except maybe get to pick which films to watch more often."

"Hey!" Even smiles down at her, pulling her inside. "I'm letting you choose now, aren't I?" 

"Of course," Mari laughs, wiping the last errant tear from her cheek. "But it only took a meltdown to get there."

-

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Part V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hallo, hello, hei! here we are. the final chapter. thank you to everyone who reads, comments, reviews, kudos, bookmarks, shares on tumblr, reaches out to me...this story would NOT have been finished without every single one of you. thank you.
> 
> a special note to immy for being the sweetest beta. and to yllawonders for the effort to write a comment on every chapter, and heide-alterlove for reaching out to me and sending me love. thank you so much. this chapter is dedicated in part to the three of you.
> 
> the link to the playlist [(this one here)](https://open.spotify.com/user/margarete.travers/playlist/74cDBGSF7EHp86l5K201Ai) is my actual spotify, and while i hesitate bc real-name and such, i'm sure everyone will tread with the utmost consideration (and if you want, follow me! i listen to a lot of music and make playlists all the damn time). the playlist, while is not described in depth in the fic, took me about a month to create (i went through a lot of music...my goodness) and there is individual reason as to why each song is there. feel free to ask about that if you're curious, but know i get excited and may meta-ramble. 
> 
> specifically, one of the songs is titled RED by Phoria, which samples an interview by Richard Feynman, who discuses how we view beauty, from the view of an artist to the view of a scientist (very isak/even, don't we think so? haha). feel free to watch it [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZbFM3rn4ldo) it is also linked in the story at the appropriate place. there is a reference to both richard siken and the Song of Achilles by the lovely Madeleine Miller, if you can spot them, you get a star! <3
> 
> i don't know if i should say this, but as heidi-alterlove pointed out to me, no series is completely without a trilogy. so please, if you are interested in a third and FINAL instalment in this verse, let me know in the comments.
> 
> the song linked under MANDAG at the very end is meant to be a sort of final song/credits rolling music, like skam always did so masterfully, and i know that if even were writing his own movie would have dearly wanted. so have a listen, if you like. 
> 
> lastly, some warnings: there is discussion of mental health treatment, as well as discussion of hypomania, and ablest language used against Even regarding his mental health. humbly, i must remind you that i am not a doctor, and thus, all my discussion of bipolar disorder and any other health issue is purely by a) experience firsthand b) many google searches c) insight of others who may share similar experiences to those of Even. i write these parts not meaning to offend at all, or be insensitive, if i am doing this, please message me with any concerns. while this is meant to be wholly a work of fiction, the last thing i want to do is alienate anyone with my ignorance. 
> 
> all mistakes are my own. alt er love!

SCENE:

A beautiful boy stands in the corner. Only bare edges illuminated with light. There is a bulb dangling behind his skull, smelling burnt, arranged like a weary halo. The hard beat of the music affects you like self-flagellation, from every angle in a steady sweeping rhythm, your heart beating in atonement. There is a wariness here and it swells like a well, and you’re swimming in it, all the air constricting in your throat in a bottleneck.

CUT:

A beautiful boy stands in a corner. As a matter of fact, he is only corners. Along every edge lie a silverlined thread of light, like a beacon, and Even -

A beautiful boy stands in a corner. He’s written this story before.

SCENE:

A beautiful boy stands in a corner: a red flush illuminates his cheeks. Is it the blood under his skin, or the light outside, hazy, out of focus? He looks ashamed, or lustful, or both. Shuffling, with his gaze to the ground.

When he parts his lips, and speaks, whatever he says registers differently every time: so quiet you barely catch it. Something bone deep and clinging, like grief, like an unfurling grief deep in the pit of your gut. Something like  -

Something like -  _some days all it takes is one locked door and I -_

CUT:

A beautiful boy stands in a corner. Even’s been here before.  

Even knows what the beautiful boy wants to say, even when he cannot speak. His tongue swollen with blood; his teeth falling out in a pile of bone at his feet. Trauma is like that.

-

LØRDAG 08:16  

Only the faint echoes of a dream remain on the outliers of his consciousness: Even awoke abruptly this morning, damp with sweat, tangled in his duvet, thoughts snapping up like competing trip wires, all trying to outdo one another. As he passes the church and through the park, he tries to rein them in: when I open my eyes I will be present again. But this focus slips like water through his fingers, leaving residuum in its wake. The failed attempts. 

He can’t help but be distracted: there _had_ been a dream, and it had felt very real: Isak was there, and Even was there, and though he couldn’t explain it, or find the word to describe it exactly as it felt, he knew it was tantamount. It inspired a tightness in his chest, one which he tried to rid by drinking the tepid water sitting beside his bed to wash it away like common heartburn.

All morning he was plagued with the frayed tinges of disappointment: he felt unearthed. Before he’d even began his day, an emotive upswing arrived like a tide, washing over him in such a display of entitlement, pushing back against his claim on remaining centered. I am the master of this ship, he thinks ruefully. 

But are you?

The sun is buoyant, buttery yellow and blinking at Even on his walk to work. There was a distinct lack of resistance waking up despite having hardly any sleep, and by the time Even makes his way to the front of TW, the day practically hums. At first, he pays this no mind. Everything feels illuminated after all, when one is standing upon the precipice of love.

Meditating helps, but on some days, like today, only just. By the time the store is about open, Even is still trying to shuffle his thoughts around in a semi-neat order so he can focus on the task of dialing in the espresso, a Brazilian roast named after their farm Baixado. The smell of coffee perfumes the air around him. Finn sets up the nearby tables and opens the till, the morning hardly waiting for either of them as it fills the entire lobby with cascading yellow hues, dust motes dancing along the strobes of light. 

Til Isak 9:04 / _Weren’t you going to send me a playlist? Ur keeping me in suspense_

For a busy Saturday, the the hours pass in one continuing scramble to remain on top of everything.  Even militantly runs through the queue of drinks, and wiping down the counters, his mind skipping from one task to the next, leaving Finn to deal with the money and the faces.

By the time Amir joins them at ten, Even has already had two cortados, on top of four half dialled  shots of espresso, all of various rates of acidity and bitterness. He knows he’s caught the jitters when he nearly ruins a rosetta he’s pouring because his hand is trembling. Perhaps it’s time for a break, his mind supplies when a the last order of a long list is passed over the bar.

“I am trying my hardest to live vicariously through your energy right now, Even,” Amir mutters, surveying his second under extracted pour over. “I’m never drinking before a morning weekend shift again. I am slow as fuck right now.”

“We all say that, and yet it happens,” Finn laughs, throwing a towel to him. “Except Even of course. An inspiration if there ever was one, constantly showing us up. Master of balance. Never comes in hungover, or late, or whatever.”

Even only rolls his eyes. “That’s my trick on all of you, because I’m actually quite boring and work very hard to keep my life balanced. But please, continue to reference me as your inspiration. It drives Tove up the wall,” he jokes and then turns to Amir. “We can switch, if you would like, I can do V60 and pours, if you want to do espresso and milk,” he offers, already moving towards the back wall to attempt some of the dishes. 

He tunes the boys out now; wishing to sink back into a daydream, but none arrive. The queue dissipates, leaving few spare moments to clean up. Outside, the weather sings with effervescence, beckoning Even so that he must turn his back to it. It’s so beautiful out. He wonders what Isak is doing. He pictures him curled up in his duvet, every corner possessed by this June sunshine. He pictures him out along the river, probably a KB coffee in hand, wearing that shirt with the rainbow on it again - what was the writing on the front? He tries to remember.

“When it gets busy again, I’ll take over the dishes. I don’t want to mess up the flow,” Amir refuses, breaking his line of thought “And besides, at this rate, my milk is going to be a joke in comparison. Your swans are at their peak superiority today.” 

He scoffs a little, “Hardly. Did you see my tulip? Borderline embarrassing.”

All the same he forces himself to face them again, coming to the tiny shelf behind the espresso machine and draining the last dregs of his cold cortado, rolling his tiny cup in his hand. The little rose is faded near the stem and the edges, the siena red it once was now a soft terracotta. He feels Amir watching him looking at the cup and he looks up then, wondering if he should place it on the counter in some absurd attempt to distance himself from it. A look of hesitation colours Amir’s face, his mouth twisting.

Then: “You know, since Thursday, Tim has been using your little cortado cup as a tip jar when the other one broke.”

“What?”

Amir frowns. “Yeah. Tove offered it to him when he was looking for a replacement for us. And you haven’t been in but like, I thought it was kinda weird. Because that was like the first thing you ever told me, that this was like, your _cup_.”

Finn looks reluctant to join, slouching over the till. But he nods along in agreement.

Even runs his fingers along the chip in the top of the cup. “It’s a gift from a long time ago. All the way from Morocco, you know?” he feels a smile curl around his lips, cold and ugly.

It was this same coffee cup that ended up chucked in a box full of dishes. His mother had came laden with old boxes, making her way through the apartment with little assistance from Even. His laptop had sat open on their shabby desk-cum-kitchen table, the screen asleep and beginning to collect a thin layer of dust; nonetheless Even could stare at it from where he had lain on his bed, incapable of so much as lifting his head for more than a few moments. It had been sweltering, unbearable both outside his body and within it; all he could think of was the moment Isak found the orientation email from UiO on his laptop the week prior to their move to Berlin.  

It was pathetic. A flimsy decision, ill-thought out and panic driven, devastating everything. His mother threw all their dishes and linens and books and  packed everything away. She held his hand when the movers came to collect the bed. She held him like she always had held him: her only child, polarised by terror and love. Everything happened so quickly it gave Even whiplash: instead of moving to Berlin with his boyfriend, he spent that summer underneath his duvet like a bonafide hermit. A slow death.

When he had returned from his travels a year later, enrolled in UiO for a second time moving into the third bedroom with Mari and Hemi, he had unearthed the cup, now sporting a small chip in the lip from a box of dishes. It reminded him of the best of times. Isak sticking notes underneath the cup when he left for school before Even in the mornings. Coming home to find him drying dishes,  hip leaning against the counter. A time when his dreams existed on a larger scale, and even the mundane things in life seemed promising, buffered by the swell of opulent love. 

Amir watches him. His chest feels like it’s burning, a church lit on fire, the flames licking all the way up his throat. All traces of holiness are no longer found here. Without another consideration, he takes the cup in his hands and throws it as hard as he can into the dump sink, feeling the impact of the shatter against the ceramic back-splash, the shards clinking pathetically amongst the other dishes. For a moment, no one moves.

The smile slips right off Amir’s face. Even starts to laugh, but as he does it sounds harsh and defensive. “I suppose it’s better off broken than as a tip jar, you know?”

“Shit. She shouldn’t have done that, man,” Finn frowns, his face a display of mild discontent. He’s never cared for theatrics. “We all knew that was your cup. I’m sorry.”

Even just shakes his head before either can console him further. Immediately he regrets his outburst, and embarrassment fills his cheeks with the hot rush of blood. He knows his display has upset them both; this intense reaction, the sudden sharp violence of it, but Even only feels subdued now, and rather saddened by it all. He removes his denim apron and flips it on the hook in the back corner. “No. It’s - me. I’m sorry. That was stupid. I’m just going to go for my ten minute,” he signals, before he’s out of the shop.

Outside in the sunlight, Even leans against a brick wall across from a rubbish bin, pushed back in the corner behind TW. Only the steady rhythm of a basketball bouncing against the tarmac against the road serves up a distraction, and for a moment Even tries to focus on that, predicting when it will be dribbled or passed. But soon that fails him. There is no beauty here to ruminate, no sense of visual imagery to bring him away from his outburst.  The ferocity which burst from him feels both cathartic and startling, and now the little cup from the souks in Marrakesh is no more than just another thing to clean up.  

His thoughts jab at him unobliging: someone is always cleaning up after you.

It echoes strangely in his head, blank for a moment except for shame. Another part of him of feels irrepressibly cynical: you clutch on _things_ which hold meaning so deeply to you. But it is not the meaning itself. Let it go, Even. It’s a cup.

He lets it go. Heaves a deep breath, inhales the street pollution and the rank odor from the bins and flow of air which swells through the nearby trees. He can hear their leaves rustling, and it reminds him of Isak’s laughter yesterday in the park, how they danced around each other, how it felt like they were dating. Isak and his eyes shining, his conspicuous smile giving Even butterflies, esteemed and ardent throughout the day. It overwhelms him.

The only way to rectify this, Even thinks, is to face the art. He must find the courage to channel this energy into something before it spins him ruthlessly out of his control. He must find the courage to face the red, and sanction the anger, and cohere the present with the past, before he loses sense of it all. A precipice of falling in love, indeed. A cliff where he can choose if he jumps or falls.

Til Isak 11:12 / _I am going to Chateau neuf tonight, if you want to see the studio. I’ll forward the address. Are you sleeping off a hangover today?_

When he returns from his break, Even collects the remaining shards from the cup and places them in a bag. Neither Amir nor Finn comment on it again, and the shift passes him by in faint discontent. The steady flow of customers reliably resumes, tourists and locals alike all in search from Tim’s perfectly rendered roasts, the ubiquitous calm imposed by the sleek wooden interiors, and the near constant hum of the hopper grinding beans.  

-

~ ~  TRI-SQUAD  ~ ~

EVIII 14:23 / _heiii, anyone in the mood for cinnamon rolls? There’s a couple from yesterday i can bring home_

EVIII 14:32 / _okay, I guess there are no takers. Are u both out today or what are the plans ?? I’m off at 15:00, anyone free?_

EVIII 15:08 / _i see how it is (!!) Omw home now, then going to the studio_

- 

Til Isak 15:09 / _easiest way to is to walk between Chateau Neuf and the music academy, there is a black door that I’ll leave slightly propped if I’m there. If it’s closed I’m not._

Til Isak 15:10 / _hope you’d had a good time with the boys yesterday <3_

-

LØRDAG 15:35

Even arrives home, arms laden with his broken cup and a bag full of day old pastries, expecting the flat to be deserted. He finds exactly the opposite. The apartment appears deceptively cheery, their living space overflowing with light.  Mari is sitting on the sofa with her laptop, clicking away, and Even can hear the sound of the shower running and Hemi’s recognisable alt girl rock blaring through the door.

“Hey,” he says, placing the rolls on a plate before arranging a stack of dirty dishes into the dishwasher. Mari doesn’t respond. Like a deck shuffling into place, he becomes acutely aware of the tension in the room, her poorly disguised discomfort emanating enough that Even could stick out his tongue and taste it.  He wants to write it off as another Liesel situation, and to escape from it, he goes into his room to gather up supplies: a can of red latex paint, a pot of spackle, and a small assembly of paintbrushes to take to the studio. His duvet lies in a pile on the floor where he left it, his bed oddly barren. His ficus needs watering. The photo of Isak on his windowsill has fallen face first.

He hesitates, ready to leave when the thought occurs to him. It feels like a full body-lurch more like. Inside his drawer is the letter from Isak, and he places it amongst the stack of things he’s bringing with him. It's not exactly ideal. He always likes to open those letters at his desk, surveying the partial view of Sofienbergparken from his room with his music at his fingertips, thinking of Isak thinking of him, of writing to him. For a moment he ponders: do these letters cease now that he is in Oslo as well?  

He hopes sincerely not. He remembers the first one arriving completely out of the blue; just as the spring was starting to peek through the slow recession of winter, and the thoughts of Isak restrained to a dependable simmer in the back of his brain. The new term started taking precedence above everything else thrumming along in his head. To say it was stressful is an understatement. 

And Isak - Isak was so honest; the way he wrote, his voice, how clear it was - it startled Even. Here he was, grown up. Far more transparent that Even ever remembers him being. Unflincingly so.

 _But here’s the crux of it all: you know me_ , Isak wrote. _Surely, even years later, you know me better than anyone else. You knew I wouldn't have told her broke up, and you know I likely wouldn’t be writing her. In a way, I know you so well too. I know why you wrote her in the first place. I know you had your own reasons. You always do. All these secrets and lies we told felt like it finally served a purpose. I understand what it's like to try to avoid being forgotten entirely._

He can't remember the last time he read something and it made him feel this way. Like staggering to find somewhere to sit down, zeroed in on everything he's trying to explain; Even his audience of one, Even his reader. 

It makes Isak's insistence that he's not a writer all the more ignorant, Even thinks with hindsight. These letters  encapsulates Isak irrefutably, most likely without him being completely aware he’s showing as much as he is. Isak's brought up the postcards a couple times since returning to Oslo. How on Earth did you know what you wanted to write? He asked. And how on Earth did you learn how to write so well?

Here's the truth: Even’s not really the writer at all. He bends his words into daydreams, through a paintbrush or a camera, where he becomes a silhouette to his audience. His life a stage play. His hands create illusions because they make sense to him; because his brain is constantly turning over stones that feel indisputable, only to find that they’re little more than mystifying apparitions.  

What happens if reality is reckoning with you? Once during therapy he asked this.

Invite the surreal in, Susanne answered. Maybe your art can help you make sense of it.

But Isak is real. Grandiosity isn’t really his style, but perhaps truth is only truth when it’s written plainly, on display without agenda or disguises. He doesn’t write Even in an effort to impress him with poetry or flourishes. 

It doesn’t matter. Isak has rewritten the entire course of their history; now their story is no longer incomplete. There is a hope running through every letter, between the spaces on either side of each word,  along every new line, and the crossed out sentences - a hope which refuses to bend to convention. A hope which arrives, again and again, in Even’s mailbox. He reflects now that the idle bemusement he felt when Isak explained his possessiveness over the postcards, bringing them to Oslo with him. It’s very clear to him now.

The [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xHT7JBRZwX8) suddenly cuts out, the shower ending. Supplies in hand, he imagines a scenario where he finds both the girls out in the living room composed in a colourful eccentricity hinting towards the [Riikka Sormunen](http://www.riikkas.com/personal.html) which hangs above their sofa now. He bought it for Hemi’s nineteenth birthday. Sometimes, he wonders if he is chained to this habit for the rest of his life: doomed to reduce those closest to him as unintended, and sometimes disastrous muses for him to dress up and down as he pleases. Could it be that his relationships only serve a subconscious lure which entices him to fixate on those around him in such an abstract fashion? 

Abruptly Even wishes to stop thinking. He needs to find somewhere to be quiet. He feels like he cannot slow his thoughts down, and the daunting pull of anxiety looms closer. 

The scenario is effectively quelled as soon as he tastes the energy in the living room. Hemi and Mari sit opposite, pretending to read, their bodies arrangements of tension. The distinct feeling they were both waiting from him to come back out of his room fills him.

“Hey,” he aims for genial, “There’s pastries on the counter if you want. I didn’t know if either of you two were home.”

A heady silence follows; Even does not miss the way Hemi flashes Mari a look. She does not look at Even.

Mari is the one who speaks. She clears her throat, meeting his eye awkwardly. “Thanks. Where you off to?”

“The studio,” Even answers. He is unsure as to why everything feels so tense. He points out, “I wrote it in the group text.”

Another beat. Her expression is unreadable, and Even feels suddenly very aware of himself standing in the kitchen while they sit in the living room; the distance feels poignant. Hemi’s face obscured as she turns to gaze pointedly out the balcony door.

“How was your night, Hemi?” he aims to tread gently. He wants to be sweet to her, to bring her out of her sour mood; this is a practice song and dance between them. Perhaps if he felt more patient today he would make a sounder attempt, as of now as he wants is to escape to his studio and wait for Isak’s impending arrival. His pleasant tone sounds forced, even to his own ears.  

“Fine,” she huffs out, so much more acidic that it takes Even aback.

He raises an eyebrow, “You okay?”

“Are you okay?” She shoots right back. Still she does not turn to face him.

“Yes,” he returns defensively. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Hemi turns on him now, her expression tense. “Nothing. You just seem...a little _up_ , is all.”

“What?” Even can feel his face screw up. He looks to Mari. “What?”

“I’m just saying,” Hemi mutters at the same time Mari says, “Nothing.”

“It doesn’t seem like nothing,” Even insists.

“Fine,” Hemi fixes him with another look, one that sends his gut flipping, like he’s being caught out. “It’s not nothing. You know when I went out last night, I saw your ex boyfriend there. Isak. We had a really weird conversation. Did you know that he’s in Oslo?”

Even does not know where this line of questions are going; her face gives away little else but irritation. He’s not sure what his answer will bring, but in his hesitation, Mari perks up and he quickly realises they’re waiting to see if they’ll catch him in a lie. They already know he knows, he thinks.

“Yeah, I knew he was in Oslo,” he reluctantly admits. “So?”

“Nothing,” Mari insists. “No, of course. But if you did know and it was like...stressing you out, you could have talked to us about it.  I just don’t want you to think that we didn’t care or,” Mari hastens before Hemi can speak. Even knows what she’s doing: trying to appease the tension before the inevitable lid blows, her eyebrows are all knotted up in the middle of her face. “Just like, so you know we’re here for you.”

“I know that,” Even frowns. He looks back at Hemi. “I do -  so you saw him, and so - what? It’s not surprising he’s here when he’s from Oslo as well. Hardly a big of a deal.”

Hemi’s tongue may as well have a pointed end. “I mean - it is a pretty big deal, right? Isak is like _The Ex_ of all Exes. And all of a sudden he’s just back,” she snaps her fingers conspiratorially. “It just feels like you purposely didn’t mention it. Unless it was actually a secret?”

“Of course not,” he bats back. Something small and heavy sinks inside him.

“He came up to me in Fri Sjel,” Hemi continues. “I don’t know why he thinks we’re especially friendly. It’s so arrogant.”

A dreadful thought occurs to him and it colours his tone, “What -  what did you say to him, Hemi?”

“Are you seriously angry at me right now?” Her dumbfounded expression only fuels his irritation further: how Hemi assumed Even would appreciate any of this is beyond him. “I haven’t _done_ anything except try to protect you. I didn’t say anything to him I haven’t already told you.”

“Tell me what you said,” he demands.

Hemi’s eyes bulge slightly and her mouth opens before it all comes rushing out, “He was drunk and told me how we got off on the wrong foot and that he said it would be cool to get to know me. I told him that we absolutely did _not_ need to get to know each other, but he seemed confused or stupid or both. So I explained to him how fucked up it is that he comes to _your_ club and talks to _your_ friends and tries to involve himself in _your_ life again, as if he hadn’t bothered you enough with those letters, because now you were finally seeing someone again, and you were finally doing better and we didn’t _need_ him dropping by whenever he very well fucking pleased to stir up more pain and trauma than he already has - " 

“Oh, _fuck._ You? You said that?”

He hates the tone of her voice, the possessiveness of Fri Sjel, the way it comes off as belittling to Even. It serves to make him immediately defensive. It feels like an ice cold shower, and he clenches his jaw so tightly for a moment he hears his teeth grind against each other. Somewhere in his brain a voice is reminding him: _de-escalate de-escalate de-escalate_ and yet, it’s his voice now booming, sucking up all the space in the room.

“You said that?” Even bites again. “That’s quite possibly the rudest thing I’ve ever heard you say. And it’s not a short list. Fucking hell - ”

“I wasn’t being rude. I was being _honest_ ,” Hemi defends. “Don’t you have any common sense Even? Would you like me to remind you that when we met, you hadn’t seen the sun for nearly three weeks because it reminded you of him? It was summer, for fucks sake! And don’t you remember how long it took to repair the damage that relationship did? We’ve spent nearly two goddamn years tip toeing around this break up and out of the fucking blue he comes back and you - you dropped _everything_ \- for him.”

“ - Isak did not just show up out of the blue, his mother passed away and that’s not his fault - ”

“That’s my fucking _point,_ Even. It wasn’t by choice.  And did he ever intend to? He comes back to Oslo needing a shoulder to cry on, and immediately it’s like all the shit he put you through doesn’t even matter. So long as Isak is saved in his time of need, right? You know why it seems all just a little too convenient for me?”

“Hemi - ” Mari tries to interrupt, but Hemi barrels on.

“Because then he was just gone. _Again_.  That’s what happened. February was a fucking mess for you, or have you already forgotten? In fact, this entire year hasn’t been the same. All I can think is that God forbid he tries to actually date you because then surely he’ll leave again, and Mari and I will be have to witness another impending spiral - ”

“I did _not spiral_ ,” he seethes, and like one tiny eruption prompting another eruption, he flings his art supplies down on the counter without care, and it spills everywhere, paintbrushes rattling on the tile floor. Even’s trying not to hold in his breath, but any sudden movement threatens to release the energy tangling up inside of him, hot and dark and tartarean. His voice wavers under the attempt at keeping it lowered, “That is fucking bullshit, Hemi. You are dangerously close to implying you think Isak triggers my bipolar and that - ”

“But he does!”

“No!” His shoulders shake with how vehemently he disagrees and the enormity of that feeling threatens to overtake him. It’s the smallness especially, how terrifyingly small he feels. “That’s such a fucked up thing to say. And it’s not true. It’s not true at all. You are talking about shit you know nothing about. You don’t know what it’s like.”

He rounds on Mari now, his blood roiling relentlessly; face flushed and likely bright pink, throat welling up uncomfortably, “And you? You think he makes me unstable? You think I don’t know what’s good for me - ”

“ _No_ , Even!” Mari attempts to bring the noise level down in a strained, uncomfortable mutter. “You have to see it from our perspective too. What we mean is - I - you were so depressed in February, and ever since he started writing, you hole up in your room or disappear for ages to the studio and - you know, you _know_ yourself, Even. This week, part of last. You haven’t really been sleeping, have you?” 

“I’ve been sleeping just fine,” he refuses to concede even a little. He is transparently horrified by the direction this conversation is going. As if all the careful understandings and considerations they’ve built have been ripped from their foundations and only deep sockets of earth remain. “Everything is fine. I’m fine. Or I _was_. I mean - what if I had gone up to Liesel in public and said things like that to her on your behalf?”

Mari has the decency to look distraught, but all the same she says, “It’s different. We don’t even have that much history. She’s never had the real power to hurt me like that.”

“I - ”

“It’s just,” Mari’s voice is wet and thick when she speaks, a little sound caught mid-escape. Her hands come up to conceal it: to contain herself again. “If Liesel had done to me what Isak did to you, and you saw how hard it was after, I would have understood if you felt protective,” she tries to reason “I know it was your relationship, Even - but I can’t help but agree with Hemi.”

“Okay, but I’m not asking you if you agree, and I’m not asking Hemi to protect my honour or whatever. And I would never want anyone to defend me by being so necessarily unkind - ”

Hemi cuts him off, “Just stop, Even, and be honest right now. You’re not seeing anyone new. There is no mystery man, is there? You’re seeing Isak again, aren’t you?”

He understands now, that feeling he awoke to this morning. He understands now the precipice is he is standing precariously on, and it is not love; it is truth. Truth telling him: you missed your chance. He knows the words need to come out of his mouth but now his voice falters, dead somewhere between his gut and his teeth, and Even flounders to find an answer, his heart pounding in his ears -

“You are, aren’t you?” Hemi’s tone takes on a specific disbelieving malice, “I fucking knew it.  It’s really _fucked_ that you’re on this high horse with your typical holier-than-thou act, when in reality it’s actually because you _did_ lie and now you’re caught all in it and it’s all fucked up.”

Even redirects with a furious shake of his head, “I only lied because both of you made it totally clear that you wouldn’t approve if I saw him again, and that you can’t understand why I would want to talk to him again - ”

“But you didn’t even give us the chance. You don’t let us in anymore, babe. Can you honestly tell me that you feel we’re as close now as we were last term? That we talk like we used to?” Mari asks forlornly. Her shoulders become narrow like they’re being pulled in by a drawstring. She looks like she’d rather be anywhere else but in this argument. “I told you, I told you I felt we were distant, and you convinced me in was all my head,” she points out.

“I never thought you’d just outright _lie_ ,” Hemi rails, attempting to resume control, her tone waspish and disbelieving. “You didn’t have to hide it. Sneaking around like we’re these unfair fucking assholes who don’t give a shit - ”

“Hemi, stop it,” Even cuts her off. “Stop pretending like you don’t know why I didn’t tell you.”

She pauses. “Enlighten me.”

“What I want to know,” he starts instead, and his voice absolutely does _not_ waver, “If you had your suspicions it was Isak all long, then why did you let him to believe I was seeing someone else? Why not just confront him and tell him that you didn’t think we should see each other?”

Hemi grapples, and Even sees his opportunity. “If you wanted to be angry with me for lying, that’s one thing. But you had to take it further. You said things you suspected not only to be untrue but were also hurtful, because you know that I want to be with him,” his breath feels caught in his throat, ragged and shallow as he confesses what he’s known for too long already, “And you’re jealous.” 

When he’s less angry, Even knows he will regret it; part of him already does.  Hemi reacts as if his words carry a physical weight to them. He pays witness to the abject humiliation shining through her cheeks, mouth parted and pursed like one’s mouth is wont to do when they’re holding back tears.

Still, he can’t help but think: God, how could you say those things to him? How could you? How has his simple aversion become tangled in a nest of lies? A growing, slithering terror begins to sluice through him, dripping down his throat and through his chest and to his fingertips. Like he’s received an electric shock: all his nerves set alight.  

Everything servers to overwhelm him, and yet Even’s fixated on a singular, terrible imagining: Isak’s face caving in, every laugh line becoming slack and smoothed out into a passive mask; the humiliation, the shame. Thinking of Isak leaving Fri Sjel feeling unwelcome, unwanted; internalising the blame Hemi so quickly assigned to him. He probably didn’t even argue with her.

Hemi glares at him, her mouth drawn up in a wounded line, and her rage feels like an assault on his system. Without another word she storms off, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

Mari runs a hand through her hair. She looks up at Even through wet eyelashes. “Why did you have to say that to her?”

At first Even thinks he’s going to start yelling again. He waits a beat. Then another. It takes a further cathartic sigh before the desire to say something that will hurt her too wanes, because he knows that will only serve to make it worse. Instead he chooses the quiet, where it’s safe, and he won’t say anything more he could end up regretting.

Mari shuffles closer and then thinks better of it, stopping just short of the beginning of the tile Even is standing on, surrounded by fallen art supplies.

“I’m just - I don’t think I can be here right now. I’m gonna take some time.”

“You’ll come back though, right?” Mari asks. All he can see is her profile now, her shoulder pulled up to obscure herself.

He hesitates. Part of him wants to refuse to answer. He thinks: it would be easy to keep them in suspense. And it would serve them right.

They couldn’t wait up for him in hopes of sleuthing around for clues of mania or depression. Then he could return when he truly felt ready, rather than knowing he’s on some fabricated time limit where he had to show up or he’d risk getting his parents involved. He remembers how Sonja would do this: forcing him to agree to things he regretted immediately agreeing to. But Mari isn’t Sonja.

For a moment, they share a look across the room. Through the tight knots of anger, and the urge to retaliate and lash out thrumming through him like a vibration, Even sees his friend Mari, with her wet blonde eyelashes, with her sad smile.

“I’ll come back,” he finally says. “I just don’t think I can handle talking right now.”

“Yeah. No, not until you’re ready,” Mari sniffs.

“Right. Well. See you,” Even returns awkwardly.

It’s only when he’s left their apartment building behind that he begins to understand what just happened. His stomach queasy like he might be sick, and he waits on a park bench next to those heavily scented Daphne bushes to see if he’ll puke. But nothing comes up.

-

[LØRDAG 19:55](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iPGEnMJkeqk)

Here is the devastation, erupted by a truth. The light outside cascades a strobe effect across the walls, washed out and murky, and the cramped sink in the corner is leaking, the sparse unexpected drip-drip interrupting his train of thought. He surveys the street light outside, how in the night it glows like a ugly golden orb suspended in the sky, a sun from another world. It won’t be dark for hours, he thinks, the sky barely mixing it’s sombre evening blues with the tell tale peachy tones of a sun beginning to set. Summer days are so long, he ruminates, and the pain so sharp.

It’s been the slowest few hours. Slower still as his thoughts are incapable of separating from the argument from earlier. His heart stutters in his chest every time he sees Mari’s tear stained cheeks in his head. The way her words seemed to capture something wretched in him and pull it out.

Considering the brevity of the fight, he’s owed enough space to process it. He’s spent many more hours in this studio without even realising more than thirty minutes had passed. But that’s not what he means now. Attempting to work on anything when Hemi’s face appears in his brain, outrage disfiguring her face, feels futile and useless. He dissects the thorns of their fight, and thinks: how can you know me so well and not at all?

It’s easier to be infuriated, but Even is fed up with being angry now, alone in his studio with all the lights off, feet tapping against the dusty dark wood, watching as faint shadows flit across the ceiling.

The longer he remains obscured up here by himself; the more apparent it is to him the tell-tale signs of hypomania. He thinks of his physical checklist. His clenched jaw, sore teeth, his rapidly beating heart. The fantastical tendrils of hope and enlightenment swirling in his gut like butterflies, the hot touch of his skin against the cool surface of his shower tile, the rush of air on his face as he ran along the river. The vivid dream from this morning, still lingering, enchanting, confusing.

He thinks of his mental checklist: these are harder to decipher. Is he more irritated than usual, given what has happened, or is it justified? Difficult to say. Has he been happier, floating on that cloud of confidence, feeling whimsical, creative, spontaneous? Also difficult to say.

The confusion ensues a reaction of despondency, and irritation, and displacement, all of which are feelings that launch straight into the centre of his insecurities, festering like a untamed nest in his head. He thinks: I feel this way because I am falling in love. Then he thinks: No, I am feeling this way because I am feeling manic. Then he redacts it: No, it can’t be just mania. What I feel is real.

Even has a lot of practice shifting through these competing narratives, the ping-pong nature of his thoughts bouncing back and forth ad-nausea inside his skull until self-combustion felt imminent. He’s put in a lot of work into monitoring himself, registering every spike in enlightenment or a dip in motivation like it could be the first domino in a long chain reaction.

When they first started working together, Susanne invented the _Mania and Reaction: Depression and Response_ outline as a behavioural guide so Even could begin to recognise the onset of manic or depressive clues and react accordingly, as well as provide a system of responses to when he’s trying to calm himself down. She always finds ways to see light in Even.

She’d even laughed when he took to calling it his MORDOR list. And then she said:

_If you have already accepted that being bipolar is part of who you are, then it means really accepting it. Sometimes you need the mania to control the mania._

_Mania does not want to be controlled, though_ , Even argued.

_Right. A full manic episode does not. But think of the first signs of hypomania. What are they?_

_Higher levels of productivity, or efficiency_ , Even listed, _more energy, more-_

_Okay, now look at it this way. If you have a system of reactions in place to help you calm down when you’re starting to feel a little more productive or efficient, you can channel that energy in as a way to monitor your behaviour. It’s a great deal of effort to know yourself this way, and to impede manic pathways like this._

_Because it’s never a matter of if,_ Even conceded after a long pause. _It’s waiting for when._

The clock ticks, the faucet drips, something sad and faraway plays on his phone where it’s plugged into the wall. He sits in the centre of his studio on the floor, surrounded by his canvases, and his stacks of film, and his many usb's holding various uncut edits of short films he’s attempted, like fragmented bones of a premature empire.

 _Autobiography of Red_ is nearly finished, and for a few weeks now Even’s discarded his fervour in that project to pursue another one, tangled up in his obsessive desire to recreate what his brain so insists on fixating so thoroughly.

The clock ticks. The song changes. The night does not beckon.

He hears Susanne in his head: this energy can be used to help you calm down. Stay in your safe space. Remember to treat yourself with kindness.

Then he thinks: God, the messes waiting for me out there.

He tried to call Isak after he left the apartment, but it went straight to voicemail. Nausea does not abade him, imagining and reimagining the way Isak must have looked caught in unexpected conflict. Even doesn’t have to guess as to why the line of texts from earlier today have gone unanswered. He knows now what the silence implies.

In an effort to stave off the impending fall out of that train of thought, Even shuffles through art supplies used up and old, arranging them on the desk. The clock ticks. Then he takes a break, sitting in the centre of the room again with his legs pulled up under his arms, quelling the tides of urgency that wave through him. Nothing is immediate, Even. Nothing lasts forever either.

He takes his finished work for Autobiography of Red and arranges them where his charcoal figures were originally taped up, on the east facing wall above the settee. He smokes a cigarette, narrowing his thoughts down to smoking and breathing.

In the corner, four different renderings of _Beautiful Boy Stands in the Corner_ , all in varying shades of red. Softer, approachable milky pinks and cherry hues to evoke visceral energy, organic matter: the colours of tongues and lips and blood and blushing. Then there are the sharper, deeper maroons and dark rust tones illustrate the vice like grip of love and violence; how easily they can be mistaken for one another.

He finishes his cigarette. Even arranges the collection of Isak’s portraits on the back wall under a strip of track lighting. It is here that he starts to piece together the narrative. It is here the cues of sadness become apparent, the tenderness he’s poured in; how integral these feelings are to the work.

Despite their shared colour palette, these pieces will never make it into his final project; it’s too close. The many drafts it took get perfect Isak’s expression the way he sees it in his brain. The painstakingly attention Even required to try to capture the light falling upon his defined cheekbones, the top of his nose, his jaw line. The adherence to the shadows Even could not ignore, outfitted in the red light around him. The voyeuristic commitment to recreating Isak’s body language took weeks in itself, but none of this is surprising. He’s always making shrines out of Isak.

Manic or not, Even decides, what he feels is real.

Smaller derivative works flank the main four: canvases with red rimmed eyes, or an outstretched hand and the conjoint wrist, a chest with a exterior heart, anatomically correct and decorated in tiny gold adornments. A heart fit for an angel. His artist impressions make up one impressive stack in one corner. His photographs from Spring term hang above his head next to the early proteges for the Red project tacked up high on the wall.

Time passes, and slowly he’s been able to keep himself still for ten minute stretches of time before the urge to organise overcomes him again. And then twenty minutes. And then he sits for a half an hour, resisting the idea of colour coordinating his pencils. He knows this dance: he knows he can push back against it. He goes to the centre of the room again: wishes for rain, for the universe to redeem itself, for a sign from God. But it never comes.

He keeps hoping a descent into tiredness will begin, but the effort is arguably futile. Mari’s right: he hardly managed to sleep soundly this week. What’s worse is the realisation that somehow he missed it, or if the power of his own denial is tremendous enough to make him so unaware. Isak’s sheer proximity in the days they’ve spent together again leave his body like withdrawals, and it reminds him that he is alone.

Maybe the girls were right. Maybe they were right about Even all along.

For a moment he thinks he’s going to get angry again. But instead, he remembers standing in the Kollektiv with Isak, seventeen and so naive, telling him: only you can feel what you feel.

He goes to his phone to where it’s plugged in and sits under the window so the breeze will pass above him.

Til Isak 21:02 / _Dear Isak. I talked to the girls. I can’t imagine how you must feel. I’m sorry for what she said, and that it was me who caused it. I want you to know none of it is true. The last thing I want is for you to stay away from me. There are a thousand things I want to say to you right now, but you deserve to hear those things in person. I hope I have the chance to explain it to you. I know you probably don’t want to see me anymore, and that it’s my fault. I wish I could have done it all differently. I’m sorry._

He rifles through bags of negatives before losing compassion for them, his thoughts pressing in and troubling. The attempt to keep his life compartmentalised from Isak seems absurd: like a forest fire, he should have seen the smoke coming a mile away. Would the girls really understood if he had come to them? Even’s not sure. Now he’ll never know if it could have gone differently.

With that realisation, he takes a deep breath.

Hemi’s question sinks its teeth deep into the weak underbelly of his insecurities. Was Isak ever going to come back? If Isak’s mother was still alive at the facility in Fagerborg, would Isak had ever returned to Oslo, and run into Even, and confessed what he confessed? Would they have forever remained apart, incomplete, growing scar tissue over these open wounds and called it healing?

The truth is he doesn’t know. The truth is that this is the universe where Isak’s mother did die, and he did come back, and like two moths drawn to a singular flame, they sought each other out again and again. The truth is when Even found him sleeping in his bed the night before he flew back to Berlin was unlike anything else. The weight of it. A tremendous feeling catching him in the doorway. It was if he walked straight into the past.

The truth is he doesn’t want to give up yet. The truth is he doesn’t know how to withstand letting Isak go again. He feels wrung out by this feeling, the sheer weight of his existence unbearably heavy.

A notification catapults him from the floor just in time to catch the header. It’s from Isak but he can’t see the contents, and nearly throws a small tantrum when his phone refuses to unlock until he’s wiped down the screen and turned it off and on again.

And then finally:

Isak 21:17 / https://open.spotify.com/playlist/74cDBGSF7EHp86l5K201Ai

He waits a beat to see if the typing dots will appear. Nothing. The link brings him a spotify playlist and for a moment Even just stares at it. It’s titled [auf den Mond zeigen](https://open.spotify.com/user/margarete.travers/playlist/74cDBGSF7EHp86l5K201Ai) with a track list of seven. He scrolls up to the texts he sent this morning.

Til Isak 9:04 / _Weren’t you going to send me a playlist? Ur keeping me in suspense_

Now re-reading it, Even regards it with a particular undertone of deception. The worst part is he has no idea what Isak thinks: whether or not he understands that this particular chain of events have in part been set by Even himself. Actually, the worst part he has no idea how Isak feels, and it eats at him inside, because he’s the one responsible.

He reads the title again. His German isn’t above a few google searches. When he reads it in Norwegian, it seems innocuous and fails to register it as anything but a playlist title. He translates it back and forth a couple of times, wondering if the wording will change.

Then he translates it from German into English. Pointing at the moon.

He’s heard that before. Where has he heard that before? _Pointing at the moon_. If Even knows anything it’s a clue Isak’s left right there for Even to decipher, the same way Even left a paper trail of himself throughout Marianne’s postcards.

He throws the window open as wide as it will go. He checks the clock, relentless and ticking: 21:20. Even turns up the volume and sits in the middle of the floor, a cigarette rolled in hand with his head tipped back against the settee. This way he can catch a partial glimpse of the moon through the window as it begins to emerge in the pink evening light.

He lifts his arm and points up through the window, angling it so both his hand and the moon waxing crescent fall within his line of sight. He looks at his hand, and in slow inhale of understanding, he realises where he’s heard it before.

_He was pointing at the moon, but I was looking at his hand._

-

Til Isak 22:43 / <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZbFM3rn4ldo>

Til Isak 22:44 / _There is no one else in this universe or any other universe that I can imagine being with but you._  

-

SØNDAG 00:12

Even’s just made himself a tea from the calcified kettle plugged in one the floor when he hears the sound of someone coming up the staircase. He stops what’s doing, ears perked, his mind racing as to who it could be. Mari - worried that he’s not yet returned to the apartment? Hemi, ready to go for another round?

Instead, the whiny wooden door swings open to reveal Isak standing there. His expression is carefully blank, except for a determined type of curiosity, hair swept back from his forehead and a little wild looking. For a moment they only stare at each other.

Then Isak says, “You always sit in your studio like this in the dark?”

Even remembers himself. “It only started getting dark like half an hour ago. I just forgot.”

Isak nods. Even feels the awkward tension grow in the room and he wishes desperately he know how to stamp it out. He watches Isak digest the room, his eyes travelling from each corner to the next before they land on Even.

“I - um,” Even starts. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Isak shrugs, “Better late than never?”

Even nods, heavy and unsure what else to say. But then he thinks: here you have this beautiful boy, standing in a corner, and he won’t tell you he loves you, but he loves you -

“Isak,” he says, still floundering for a moment. He stands there with his stupid kettle and his stupid tepid tea in his dark studio, so he goes to the window and flicks on the lamp there and then the track lighting, and hears Isak’s resulting sigh at the sudden change.

When Even stands up, he finds him looking at the paintings hanging on the back wall. Here is my truth, Even thinks warily. Here it is, finally.

“Wow,” Isak breathes out. He looks like he wants to take a step closer - but doesn’t move from his spot. His mouth hangs open as he stares upon his own face. “I - it’s me.”

“Yeah,” Even agrees. He feels exposed, and it is uncomfortable, but he can recognise that if anyone should be making him feel this way, it should be Isak. He flips the track lighting off again. “I wanted to apologise. For what Hemi said to you. I had no idea she - I never asked her to speak on my behalf. And I hope you know that...it should be fairly obvious that I’m not seeing anyone else, and I don’t want to see anyone else. And I don’t want you to stay away from me.”

Isak swallows, and then finally turns to face him. Even can feel his eyes searching his expression, the wheels in his head almost visibly turning. Then he nods. “Why is she under the impression that you were? Seeing someone.”

Even bites his bottom lip. A lie bubbles easily up to the surface: I have no idea why she thought that. Isn’t it strange? I haven’t told her anything.

But he can’t bring himself to carry on this way. Instead he says, “Because I told her I was seeing someone else. I told her that because it was easier to get her off my back, because I didn’t want to have to tell them - ”

“Was it because you are ashamed?” Isak interrupts him, his voice sounding like it’s caught in his throat, and for a moment Even feels his gut flip in alarm - is he -  “Ashamed to be with me?”

“ _No_ , Isak,” he shakes his head.

Isak seems to consider this with a nod, but otherwise Even can’t figure out where he stands with him. He hurries along. “I didn’t tell the girls you and I were talking again, because they don’t exactly think it’s a good idea. And I wasn’t interested in having to defend my choices to them. But I didn’t keep it from them because ‘I’m ashamed. I’ve never be ashamed.”

That last statements hangs heavy in the air. Isak digests this with a large sigh. He looks to the window. “Can I smoke in here?”

He’s staying at least for a cigarette, Even thinks. That’s a good thing. “Of course,” he waves to the stoop there where he usually perches. “Go for it.”

He rolls a cigarette on his knees, legs brought together making him appear strangely petite. Isak looks up at Even through his lashes when he lights it. “I didn’t text you back because I thought maybe...maybe you were ashamed, and - ” he struggles through what he wants to say. “Well, I thought: serves me right. How many times I’ve made you feel the exact same way.”

Even runs a hand through his hair. He did not expect that. “No. No, I didn’t - God, it was just so difficult, after we broke up, and I tried so hard to be a new person. You know? When you came back, I just didn’t know how to reconcile these two worlds colliding again...and I’m sorry. That I lied to them and made a fool out of you. That was stupid. It was cowardly.”

Isak only sighs. “It’s okay, Even. I understand.”

“You do?” Even narrows his eyes, “You reacted far better than I did.”

“No,” Isak disagrees, flicking his ashes over the sill and shrugging one shoulder. He is decidedly resigned about this entire conversation, something lethargic held deep in his haunches. “I understand because...I will always be the one who left. Before I ever came back to Oslo I knew it could be like this. I knew that - people would be justified in not liking me, if it were to come to that.”

“But - that’s bullshit,” Even argues, “Like, I’m sorry but - it’s not justified for my roommates to act like this and call it ‘protecting’ me when they weren’t even there for it. And they don’t know you. It’s not their job and it makes me so angry, when they say shit like this, and tell me how I should feel - ”

“Do they tell you how you should feel?”

“Yes!” Even insists, and hands gesticulating in exasperation. The words sit in his mouth and he’s not sure whether or not he should release them - but then he thinks, fuck it. “When I went home today we got in an argument and they insinuated you make me manic.”

Isak looks taken apart, his eyebrows jumping up in surprise. Disbelief colours his voice when he squeaks, “What - really?”

Even shakes his head darkly. “Yeah. I don’t really know how to deal with it.”

A moment passes them, Even standing by the back wall, cold tea long forgotten. Isak perched on the windowsill with his legs pulled up under his arms, the golden streetlamp cascading him in sheer mellow light, creating a hallow. Isak looks sheepish, gaze down to stare at his hands, a small soft sound coming from the back of his throat.

Isak hums again. “Hemi told me that me showing up really didn’t help you back in January. And I think it just confirmed…” he trails off, words caught somewhere before his teeth. When he speaks his voice takes on what is probably meant to be a contemplative tone, but to Even it just sounds downtrodden. Like he’s resigned almost.

“...It’s just, I don’t exactly _disagree_ with her. We have the ability to hurt each other so much worse than if it’s other people. And that shouldn’t be taken for granted.”

Even frowns. Fresh cigarette wedged between his lips. He lights it, blowing out a stream of smoke.

“I don’t want to agree with Hemi right now,” he says decisively. God, that knot is back again, twisting in his lungs, filling his head up. “Don’t let her get into your head. I know you can devastate me. So what? Why don’t we just devastate each other right now and get it out of the way. Tell me. Tell me how you broke my heart.”

Isak is shaking his head in disagreement. “No, Even,” he says, pained, “I don’t want - ”

“ - Why not? Let’s just get it over with,” Even insists. “I mean, if we do it now, it can’t hurt us later - tell me, tell me how badly I hurt you! Tell me how I fucked you up!”

“For fuck’s sake, come on -  ” Isak becomes a hardened edge, but Even is not deterred. He is wrung out, furious, confined by the feeling that he’s always on the losing side, except this time, no one bothered to let him know, and everything flashes, for a moment -

“We were at the train station,” he continues. “You remember. You were all ready to go, and you were standing under that red light, and it was 23 minutes past 9. And you were leaving.”

Even can catch the bob of Isak’s Adam’s apple.

“I came to the station before the train was supposed to depart, and when you saw me you said, _I don’t want you to be here_. I can’t wait until I never have to look at you again - remember? Remember? It was the worst moment in my life. Worse than death.”

“You broke my heart,” Isak snaps finally, his lips curling back into a small snarl. “ You told your mother you didn’t want to see me! Remember the times I tried to get you to come home and you wouldn’t even come to the door - ? 

“You wouldn’t let me talk to you? I find all this university shit when we’re supposed to be moving and I l _ost_ it - and where were you, Even?” finally he’s getting into it, his cheeks flushed now, his brows a firm knot of displeasure in the centre of his face. He points at Even. “ _You_ ran away from me.”

Even nods, spiteful. “Yeah. And you sure paid me back in that respect ten-fold.”

“How could I ever show my face again?” Isak lets out a sardonic bark of laughter, “How could I even look at you again? You didn't want me. You made it clear you didn't want me anymore. You didn’t even know up until the last minute if you were coming to Berlin with me - ” he cuts himself off them, swallowing thickly, and Even thinks, God, it’s really hurting now, “- You showed up to the station with no luggage. I knew then you weren’t coming, and that we were over. And I don’t even…”

He hangs his head, distraught, and Even sighs a bone weary sigh, deep in his body. Isak looks up again with red-rimmed eyes. “….I don’t even know what to call that feeling, boarding that train by myself.”

Even remembers. Specifically he remembers running out of the metro station, up the escalators to the trains, scrambling to find the right platform. Inside existed him a type of fear that he hadn’t remembered ever feeling before or after: the adrenaline flooded his entire consciousness, and only one thought had entered his brain: I have to see him.

He can’t really remember what happened after, except that he remained, and the train left with Isak in it. This he knows for sure. The beginning of summer, the night a burnout, the night stifling Even where he stood alone on the empty platform.

“In another universe,” Even says, “we were on the platform together. The light above you was green, and when I looked up it was 21 minutes past 9. I would get on the train with you.”

  
“But in this one,” Isak still won’t look at him. His voice sounds ruined. “We just keeping hurting each other.” 

  
“To hurt is to love,” Even is overcome with the urge to go over and touch him, to tip his head up and look Isak in the eye. His heart continues to pound in his chest and he thinks - God, he’s thinking on all these different levels and every single thought is pointing towards Isak: enough now.

Enough now, Even.

He loves you. So why are you scared?

“It’s the same,” Isak argues. “To love is to to hurt. There is no beginning or end.”

Even just deflates further, pulling his fingers through his hair again. He takes a deep breath. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters!” Isak snaps. He begins rolling another cigarette. He looks irritated now instead of sad. “You were the one who always told me that there is nothing more instrumental to the human experience than love and pain. Because then at least we know we’re alive.”

Even concedes with a small nod. “You’re right,” his voice sounds clipped to his own ears, and he tries to relax. All his muscles have been tensed, and now they feel sore as he stretches out. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“How are you feeling right now?” Isak squints, a plume of smoke obscuring his mouth for a second. Even wonders when he started smoking the first time. Must have been in Berlin.

“Pretty up,” Even says, “I was in really high spirits this week, but I didn’t think anything of it, because - ”

“Because you were with me,” Isak points out with a frown.

“Yeah,” Even admits, “And you make me feel good.”

Then, because he can’t help it, “But I still don’t agree with Hemi. She doesn’t understand shit about any of this, Isak. And I shouldn’t have even bothered trying to hide it,” he ashes his cigarette, the last few embers die out in his ashtray.

“And I’ll tell you why. Making insinuations that my bipolar is a beast waiting to be unleashed by some trigger, it negates the fact that my moods are part of who I am, as if it’s so easy to be able to separate the disorder from the person,” Even takes a moment to collect his thoughts. “And I hate that feeling, because I can’t do anything about it. And I don’t want to live myself abiding by this idea that there is something ugly inside that I need to tame, and that I can’t have the life I want because of it.”

“Yeah,” Isak says. “She was talking shit and that’s uncalled for. You work harder than anyone to have the life you want.”

Even sits there, stunned for a second. “Thanks,” he concedes. He wants so badly to go over and touch Isak. He registers for the first time what he’s wearing: a gray t shirt and track pants and running shoes - like he’s just rolled out of bed. He looks soft.

“I’m sorry I got dramatic,” Even mutters.

Isak just shakes his head. When he looks up at Even his gaze is so forlorn, and tender. He looks down again, at his hands, “I’m sorry I left.”

No, Even thinks. We can’t start this now. We can’t go back there. So he says, “I’m sorry I let you go.”

Isak nods, accepting the truce. For a moment it’s just the quiet passing breeze, and the waft of cigarette smoke, and the warmth growing in the pit of his stomach, breathing the same air with the one he adores most.

“I loved the playlist,” Even admits softly. “Thank you.”

Isak just levies him with a stare - a little nervous and a little heady, internally battling something in himself. He stands, coming over to sit next to Even on the floor, their feet almost touching. Even watches the small dart of his tongue appear to lick his bottom lip.

“You remember when you saw me again? At Fri Sjel?” Isak asks, and it calls out to an echo long ago when he’d ask a similar question: _tell me the first time you saw me. Tell me again._

“Of course,” Even hums, “How could I not?”

He wonders if he should roll another cigarette. Instead he tries to be still for another eight minutes. Isak’s drawing a circle in his knee with his finger, quiet, muddling things over.

Even goes, “I remember you at the bar, and I almost didn’t recognise you at first. For me it felt like you aged overnight. Though obviously…” he drifts off. “Remember the lights, that night? Everything was - ”

“Pink,” Isak finishes for him. He smiles down at his legs again. “Yeah.”

Even presses his socked foot just slightly against Isak’s shoe. It used to be a thing of theirs, these micro-nudges. _Hi._

“I remember the song playing,” Isak says softly. “For me it’s about the music I’m listening to when we’re together. I can never seem to let it go.”

“Hmmm,” Even hums, heart swollen, heart so irrefutably alive, and listening and hopeful. “Who was playing that night?”

“Kaasi,” Isak says. “I remember. It’s what started the playlist for me, I guess.”

He looks back down to his legs, fingers now flat on his thigh. Even waits and attempts to regulate his breathing, in and out and in out, not this silly, adrenaline fuelled, lightheaded stopping and starting - and then Isak looks up at Even, and Even knows whatever he says next is real.

“Even,” he starts, head tipped curiously to the side. “Why do you make art?”

Even can’t help but laugh a little, taken aback. “I don’t know - it more or less started when I began making drawings for you - ”

“No, no,” Isak butts in, “Don’t cred me, you know it’s not accurate. I saw them first on your walls before you ever - ”

“But I had never - drawn for anyone, specifically, before,” Even says. “I never wanted to, I guess. You were like - the first muse.”

Isak raises any eyebrow, but doesn’t deny it: after all, Even knows he can see the portraits behind him in clear view. “Muse, huh?”

Even produces two cigarettes, because it feels good to do something with his hands, and eyes the nearly seamless paper fold. He passes one to Isak. “Sure,” he says with a shrug, like it’s just that easy. “My first audience, I guess.”

Isak nods. Even looks at his hands now, in the soft glow of the lamp, how the tendons pull, a long vein running bulbous under his skin through the centre of his hand.

“You ever listen to Tchaikovsky?” Even asks, enough though he already knows the answer. He was Isak’s mother’s favourite composer, mentioned offhandedly once and Even could never really let go of it.

“Yeah,” Isak nods.

“Okay, did you know there’s pretty strong evidence to support he was gay? And some also think he was likely bipolar,” Even says. “I think from everything I’ve understood about him is that he lead a life filled with hardship and misery. I’m not sure it was very nice. And I don’t think that should be ignored. But the thing about Tchaikovsky we remember him because he was a very talented musician, who used his creativity to produce something other people could enjoy. Just because he suffered doesn’t mean he couldn’t also create something amazing in his life.”

Isak digests this with a long exhale and a slow nod, his cigarette forgotten between his fingers. He does not waver his gaze. Even continues, “I just feel like there are so many artists who have this kind of story. Munch. Van Gogh. Arbus - et cetera.  And they leave behind this entire goldmines worth of work - museums full of of art.

“And it doesn’t bring them back, but if we all die anyway, and we all die alone, and some of us will probably struggle - the idea that there are just these pieces of their soul floating around in the universe, making someone happy - or inspiring someone - then life must be worth it after all.

“I can’t help but recognise - parallels, sometimes. So, if I end up struggling a lot - well,” Even says, his voice dropping low, “I guess I can live with that. I mean. Name one artist who was happy.”

“I can’t,” Isak says with a small shrug. “I don’t know many artists’ life stories, I guess.”

“Well. Exactly.”  

“But,” he continues, “I’m sure they exist. I’m sure there are also artists who were not alone, but in fact, had many friends and loved ones, who reminded them that life is not just suffering and art. And that could be your story too, Even.”

“One can hope,” he agrees darkly.

Isak remembers his cigarette then, bringing it to his mouth for a long inhale and squinting through the smoke at him. God, what Even would give to know what he’s thinking right now. What he’d give to be that cigarette, or the ember blazing, or the smoke -

“You’re very talented, you know?” Isak says. “But I mean more than just talented in the ‘good’ sense. It’s the way you are: you see things no one else sees. You live your life in this constant of…,” he trails off, suddenly shy now, mouth twisting. Finally he says, “Beauty.”

It is very likely that he’s flushing, from his cheeks down through his neck, and Even smiles but doesn’t say anything, because how is he supposed to respond when someone says something like that. His heart hammers, and his palms sweat, and he knows he’s hypomanic, but he also knows he’s sitting nearly still for the last two hours, and things - things aren’t as terrible as he predicted, and the flood gates have held.

He nudges against Isak’s shoe again. A nudge back.  “Is it strange to see yourself painted?”

The briefest flash of a smile, blink-and-you-miss-it. “Not really,” he says decidedly, “Not if you’re the one who is painting.”

“But aren’t you tired of me always doing this? Making spectacles? Pointing my camera in your face?” Even feels out.

“No,” Isak’s face slinks into a small frown. “It’s who you are. And it’s interesting, to try and see what you see. Because it changes.”

“Is it not clear?”

“I don’t know,” Isak says. He gestures to the portraits behind him. “Do I always look this sad?”

“No,” Even turns around as he does it, to face the gradient of Isak in red. “Just sometimes. Just in January,” and now it’s Even’s turn to be a little sheepish. “I couldn’t let it go.”

“No. Me, either,” Isak hums, soft and low. He contemplates them in the quiet for a beat, before pulling himself up into a crouch. “Let’s go for a walk? It’s rather stimulating in here now that I’m here, right?”

Even’s forgot that his leg was bouncing, forgot what it feels like when someone reads you like that. He’s right anyway. The cool fresh air, the empty streets and the wet warm pavement, glistening in the dark, like glitter. He needs that consuming kind of quiet to try and clear out his head.

“Can we go somewhere where I can try and meditate?” Even asks, sounding a little meek. “It would be nice to try and calm down some more.”

As if in stop motion, Even watches Isak’s outstretched hand appear in front of him before he takes it, effectively allowing himself to be pulled into a hug, their chests lining up and they’re reduced to only smell and skin and closeness. An embrace where all the bones of Even’s back are held together under Isak’s hands, and he presses his cheek into the side of his head and lets his eyes slip close for the first time today.  The tension spools out of his muscles and Isak - Isak just clutches at him a little tighter. When did his shoulders become so broad? Even always wants to ask.

“Let’s go,” Isak says, “I know the way.”

Even doesn’t need to be told twice.

-  
  
[SØNDAG 03:21](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LSHygiOnwTA)

  
The air holds a cool moisture not found during the day, and it hits Even like a tide; they pass through cold spots as if in a haunted house, and he shivers in response each time. Walking feels nice, productive, and it helps Even focus his energy into one part of his body moving instead of trying to keep utterly still.  
  
Oslo is a strange concept at night: both startlingly empty and full of presence, none of which Even is sure what to make of. He never feels truly alone, roaming around in the city late into the evening, and yet he usually is.  
  
This time, however, Isak is walking just a step behind, and every time Even looks back to check that he’s still here, his blonde head underneath passing street lights, he smiles up at Even. Just the sound of his feet hitting the pavement comforts Even: he can’t really articulate it, other than knowing there’s someone else here with him, stepping in tandem.  
  
“Here,” Isak says, pointing across the road where a line of trees start. Even thinks he knows already where they are going. In the distance there is a furniture store, looking outdated and vacant, and he wonders if all furniture stores are really drug fronts, kept in business just to keep the traffic cyclical. He ponders the correlation between drug busts and furniture stores, and thinks for a second he could tell Isak, and at least derive a laugh out of him, but he can’t find it in him to burst this precious bubble of comfortable quiet that’s enclosed them both.  
  
Through the trees they go into Frogner Park again, from the north this time, hushed and indistinct around him, just black trees above him and a sparse, sparklingly star or two. Even starts to feel the wear on him of the day, and how long is has been as well, murky and sinister in hindsight. The dream that woke him and plagued his morning like a hangover, the broken Moroccan cup, pieces splinting between his fingers and becoming lodged between his fingernails; the fight with Hemi and Mari, a headlong dive into the worst of it, the thick of it. Even at his core hates fighting. It burrows inside of him like a sickness and holds him hostage.  
  
And now, Isak: Isak in his studio, seeing his own face in Even’s paintings, and digesting it, trying to understand it. Even’s starting to realise that words don’t fly out of Isak ’s mouth in a unfiltered reaction anymore: he chooses his words more carefully, his silences more meaningful. If only Even could articulate how much that means to him: how the vastness of their existence stuns him sometimes, how they’ve grown from these hopeful boys into something more themselves, past skins being shed in favour for something better, something real. How they broke it once but now here they are, again, taking each piece and reworking it into something new, something - all their own. This is theirs, Even thinks. And Isak was right: we can be better than we were before.  
  
“What do you think?” Isak ’s voice snaps Even out of his thoughts, and he gathers his bearings, stunned for a moment. He can’t pinpoint where he is, surrounded by a courtyard of stone and short pillars, until he looks directly up above and sees the giant pillar of bodies which sit in the center of the square: the Monolith. Even inhales cold air through his mouth.    
  
“I’ve never been here this late,” is what Even says. He looks around. “There’s no one here.”  
  
“No, exactly,” Isak hums. He points to the trees surrounding them. “And the trees help absorb the sound from the road, so it remains a prism of quiet.”  
  
“Prism of quiet,” Even echoes.  
  
“Do all the bodies disturb you?”  
  
“No,” Even shakes his head, and then he goes to the steps facing the fountain with the strange green statues that do actually disturb him when he’s up close. From here he can just making out the rows of red roses from before, now muted in the darkness.  
  
They both sit on the steps then, and Even sits up straight, and gazes out for a few minutes. When he turns to Isak, he finds him already looking at him.  
  
“It’s nice here,” he says. “Calm.”  
  
Isak nods but doesn’t say anything else. For a while they sit in the cool air, the quiet, just staring out amongst the trees, and sneaking glances at each other like school children. Even feels the tension begin to seep out of his muscles, where he holds it tight and knotted in his shoulders.  
  
“Even,” Isak starts, voice cracking, “Did I make things harder for you when I left in January?”  
  
Even bites his lip. He levies the truth. “I don’t know.”  
  
“Hemi said you were depressed and you missed the first two weeks of classes and nearly had to retake the term,” Isak goes on, and there it is, that tight knot of shame, “Is that true?”  
  
“Yeah, that’s true,” he says, “But she makes it sound so dramatic. The semesters are not front-loaded, all final projects are due at the end anyway. I managed to salvage my grades just fine. I just…”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Isak says, and then before Even can protest, he shakes his head, “No. Really. I know you’re going to say ‘it’s not my fault’ and I understand what you mean. It’s not one person’s fault, nothing ever is. But I just feel sorry that this happened in this way, that I made things difficult for you.”  
  
“Okay,” Even shrugs. “You can feel sorry all you want, but I don’t regret it. Sure, I was sad and fucked up about everything. Your mother passing away. You. Me. Because I started unearthing all these questions I didn’t have answers for.  But I don’t feel sorry for it, because these last few months, reading those letters you wrote me...it felt like waking up again. My life felt like it had more purpose than just coffee and clubbing and portfolios and uni friends, I guess. I don’t regret that.”  
  
Isak digests this with a nod. “Okay,” he assents, “You’re right.”  
  
“Fuck, that reminds me, I still have the second letter in my bag, I haven’t opened it yet - ” Even realises, and Isak just shakes his head with a small groan, eclipsed only by his growing smile.  
  
“You’re letting it build up into something bigger than it is,” Isak mutters but then just shakes his head.  
  
Even hums, taking a deep breath. They arrive easier now, fuller and deeper now that the air feels so cleansing, so cold and perfect. His lungs sing every time he exhales. A minute passes, and Even lets his eyes fall closed, and then another period of time passes, where he’s only breathing, and Isak is right: it is truly quiet up here, with not a body or a noise or an incoming interruption in sight. Even allows himself the moment to meditate, to clear his head against the beating, no begging urge to move again, to do anything, except sit here still in this moment.  
  
When he opens his eyes, he turns to glance at Isak, to find him sitting there with his eyes closed, chin in hand. He looks beautiful, and Even feels a tenderness outpouring from his body as he consumes Isak’s profile over and over.  
  
“You know,” Even breaks the bubble, and Isak blinks, looking over. “I haven’t had a full manic episode for nearly a year. It was last Spring - I stayed up a few nights in a row trying to finish my final project, and then I really just…” Even sighs. “Just totally lost it. The girls were there to pull me back, and made sure I didn’t run off and do something I regretted or worse.  
  
“The life I’ve lived since that episode has really changed how I control my moods. And I’ve benefited greatly from having a different therapist, and different medications - but…” he trails off, unsure of how to say what he really wants to say. “I struggle with the fact that I’m twenty-three now, and I’ll always have to be this way. It makes me so resentful sometimes. Being bipolar is exhausting. Just monitoring my every mood is exhausting - and then thinking, well, I shouldn’t be _too_ aware of my moods, because that also can spiral into abundant nervous energy, - and then I’m angry, angry that I’m having to be aware of my awareness. Do you see what I mean?”  
  
“Yeah, I do,” Isak says. His eyes don’t waver from Even’s, his fingers curled around his knees.  
  
“But regardless of all this, sometimes I still go through ups and downs. I think the girls saw my depression this winter as a reminder of last summer, and it really scared them. I hate scaring people. I hate that it’s part of who I am, who I will always be.”  
  
Isak nods. Doesn’t disagree. Even is flush in the feeling that he understands what he means.  
  
“Do you think they fail to recognise the random and chaotic nature of a mental illness? You can do everything in your power to be ‘good’....but ultimately, you only have so much control.”  
  
“Yeah,” Even feels the soft touch of validation. “That’s exactly it.”  
  
He nods again, mouth tucked into a small line. Even moves closer, their knees brushing now.  
  
Then he admits what he’s never admitted before. “I haunt myself, sometimes. The person I was when I’m manic or depressed, they don’t just go away when I’m ‘normal’ again. And I think that’s what everyone around me forgets. But I can’t forget. Because it’s me. And I keep that - person, or feeling, with me wherever I go.”  
  
A soft whine escapes Isak’s throat. He’s looking down at his knees again, face screwed up. Several moments pass before either of them speak again, allowing Even’s confession hang in the air between them like a third party.  
  
“You know,” Isak says, and then he stops. Pulls on a thread in the seam of his track pants. “You know. When mama died, and I saw you, I did what I always do. I found someone to save me.”  
  
“Isak - ”  
  
“No,” Isak barrels on, shaking his head at Even’s interruption. “No, it’s true. It’s not very nice, but it’s the truth. Ever since I was a kid. Jonas was there saving me, and then Eskild, and later, you. Always bringing me back, you know. And this January, it wasn’t any different. I did want I always did, and it came with a cost. To you. And me.”  
  
“But - ”  
  
“It’s just,” Isak cuts across Even again, shooting him a exasperated glance. “It’s just that, I don’t want to continue on that way. Or that’s what I decided back in April, when things were starting to get really bad. I chose to save myself.”  
  
He wants to ask: how bad? How bad did it get, Isak? He thinks back to January and how terrible it was to witness. A boy tethered to his demons, wrestling with them in the dark, pale and hungry looking. Starving for a touch. All the bones in his rib cage and back visible, like a twisted piano belt. How Isak cried underneath Even’s duvet where no one could see. Even tries to shake the memory out of his head. It does him no good to think of Isak like that now.

A particularly strong breeze passes through them, but all else is still in the world. As if there exists no one else except he and Isak in this park, full of dark stagnant bodies. Isak shrugs his shoulders, still continuing on a thought Even can’t hear. 

“I moved into a new apartment,” Isak says, “And then I started going to a specialist, because I couldn’t get out of bed, and I was going to fail all my classes. I was just sad. All the time. And guilty.”

Even wants to roll a cigarette, hearing all of this: it rides through him like electric shocks. He never expected to know this. He never expected for Isak to be the one who tells him these things. He is astounded, and it must colour his face, because when Isak glances at him he just smiles with self-deprecating grin, as if to say, _yeah, I know, right?_

“The guilt is something I guess I’ll be working on for a while. Cause I didn’t realise how much I just felt guilty for existing. And where there is guilt, there is shame,” Isak bobs his head a little. “I’m taking an antidepressant, which, wow. I didn’t realise how before… and I’m trying to reach out to my friends again. Because all they want is to be here for me. And now I can let them.”

“That’s...amazing, Isak,” Even murmurs, softly, sweetly, impossibly tender. “Really. I’m glad you told me.”

“Yeah, well,” Isak shrugs, “I decided that I wanted my life to be mine. And I wanted you. I wanted you so badly, but I knew that I couldn’t let myself see you again if I was just going to hurt you in the same ways I’ve hurt you before.”

It’s a sentence so touching that Even cannot respond, at least not right now. He saves it for later.

“I can already see the difference,” Even says. “I can’t say it doesn’t make me a little sad. I didn’t realise how much of yourself you were hiding, when we were together and I’m assuming also in Berlin. And now I watch everyone watching you, and I don’t really know what to make of it, except that I’m both a little territorial and also the first person to tell anyone how amazing you are.”

He’s granted a full belly’d giggle in response, the top row of Isak’s teeth serving to making Even smile in return, gushing. What he wants to say is: don’t you _know_ how amazing you are? Don’t you know how beautiful? Instead he allows his hand to reach over and grip Isak’s where it’s curled loosely above his knee, and holds it.

Another beat passes. Even says, “Thank you for bringing me here.”

A small smile playing along Isak’s mouth is his only acknowledgement. His thumb spreading back and forth along the plane of Even’s hand in a soothing rhythm. They stare out into the park, which slowly fills with shadows and pockets of light as the sun begins to rise. It must be just past four in the morning, Even thinks. He’s starting to feel calmer than he has in a week, and Isak is still here, and for the first time he thinks that maybe everything could work out.

“You were always the first person who saw me, you know,” Isak admits slowly. He keeps staring out into the park, and Even watches from his profile, thinking: his eyes look a little bright, a little shiny. He realises he’s holding his breath, and he exhales quietly through his mouth, so as not to disturb the moment.

Together they watch the sun rise into the sky: summer in Oslo means more brightness than anyone really bargains for. Sometimes there are things that necessitate darkness, and stillness and quiet. Sometimes when everything is illuminated you see the cracks under the surface, and the universe becomes at once vast and untouchable, frightening and enchanting, and Even feels pressed underneath the thumb of this greatness, frozen in fear.

“Did you know,” Even finds himself speaking now. His thoughts sluice through him, back and forth, before he knows what he wants to say. “That the last statue added to this park was in 2002.”

“Really?”

“Mhmm,” he nods, “After a cast by Vigeland of Ruth Maier. She was a Austrian jew who came to Norway during the war and modelled for him. I don’t know where it is. It’s called ‘Surprise.’”

“How come it took so long?” Isak asks.

“I’m sure there was a reason,” Even ruminates. “She was deported to Auschwitz where she died in the gas chambers. Did you know that it wasn’t until 2012 that Norway apologised for its role in the deportations?”

  
“This, I did know,” Isak confirms. “How terrible.”

“But now we have this statue of her forever,” Even says, “It _is_ terrible. But I think that life works like this. Because amidst this terrible sadness we still have something beautiful we can cherish out of it. Her statue reminds us that we shouldn’t forget.”

Isak nods. “I guess it means there’s a point to all this. Terrible in one hand, beautiful in the other, and never knowing which one you’ll get. Or maybe the point is that they’re different sides to the same concept.”

Isak understands what life means to Even. The complexity, the simplicity; the paradox. It means beauty, and terror, and the beauty of the terrible things the universe allows. It means suffering in golden light. It’s means always wanting. It means always wanting more.

“Did you know,” Even feels his smile burgeoning, “that I am in love with you.”  
  
Something akin to a sigh falls from Isak. All his bones relax, unspooling, like these were the very words to release him from the greatest tension he knows. His face a flush of aurorean beauty, seraphic and glowing; the spread of a smile across his face until it fills Even’s entire line of sight.  
  
“I did know,” Isak admits. “Did you know that I also love you?”  
  
“I did know,” Even parrots back.

-

SCENE:

A beautiful boy stands in a corner, aura eclipsed in red light. His cheeks glow with the rosy flush of blood, eyes shining, opalescent and inviting. He’s saying something, his mouth a display of graciousness, of opulence, of love. His mouth a forest fire. His mouth all smoke, and blood, and tears caught between teeth.

He’s mouthing something, but it’s eclipsed by the music. As you move closer, more details become apparent: the red behind him is from the slow swinging bulb behind him, dangling dangerously close to his skull, the window outfitted in light and dust.

You wish the music to stop, and as you stand before him you realise it has, and for the first time, you are able to hear what he’s saying:

DO YOU?

DO YOU STILL?

CUT:

Yes. He does.

-

[MANDAG 22:02](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z6r54CSL3sA)

When Even wakes, he is greeted by the blue-orange radiance of nautical twilight. He knows he’s slept throughout the day, can feel the bone-deep ache of having laid on one side for too long, a small patch of drool on where his mouth fell open against the pillow. The window is flung open, and the curtains are pale and filmy looking as they flutter in the breeze.

Isak’s room is empty. After they had left Frogner Park, they had walked through the city as pin pricks of real morning trickled through, and strangely awake through it all, Even started to see his city in a whole new light: one with Isak in it. They held hands, swinging between them, pulling each other down different alleyways or avenues, a sense of calmness encapsulating them.

When they reached his apartment in Toyen, Isak had fixed him some tea, and told him a story about how tea somehow managed to help him make it through this winter, and once again he had been struck by the enormity of what has occurred between them. God, to be in love again. He remembered thinking that no matter what, he couldn’t have predicted this. And instead of filling him with fear, he was overcome with hope. Look at all this, and us too, he thought. By the time it was nearing half five, Even took a Xanax and slept soundly for the first time, without dreaming.

Now, he sits up, and worries only for a moment about his breathing. His thoughts flounder and scurry away until it’s just the inhale, and the resounding exhale, and he can feel deep in his being a sense of anchoring calm, an acceptance of being alive in the world, and nothing else.

Opening his eyes, he knows that ahead of him lies untangling and rearranging his priorities and his truths. He must check in with his mother, who he was supposed to see earlier today, and Susanne, to let her know about his recent bout of hypo-mania, however mediated it feels now. Most importantly: he must face the girls, and be honest with them, perhaps fully honest for the first time. Even doesn’t want to do it: just the mere idea of it overwhelms him. But he must. He must endure the fight in order to truly find peace. And he hopes the girls will understand, in time, why he chose Isak, and why he continue to choose Isak.

A small voice reminds him: if they do not, then so be it.

He finds his phone on the side table where a text sits unread: two from Mari, one from his mother, and three from Isak.

Isak 19:54 / _I hope you won’t mind that I didn’t wake you up, you were sleeping so soundly. I had plans with Sana for dinner - did I tell you it was Sana was the one who laid the flowers? She said they were for my birthday. I should be back by 11, if you can wait up_

Isak 19:59 / _Don’t mind the projector in the middle of room. I know you hadn’t opened the second letter, so i thought maybe I’d do it for you, and before you get upset, check first to see if it’s dark, and then go to window and look out. I figure I know you well enough to know that this would also suffice as a declaration_

Isak 20:02 / _< 3 _

Curiosity buzzes like a swarm in him, his stomach doing a funny flip and setting all his nerves alight. He wonders what it is despite knowing he will see it in a moment’s time. The projector sits at the end of the bed balanced up on a couple of textbooks and a small side table, it’s strobe of light illuminating small dust motes and random molecules dancing through the room when Even disturbs the air.

It’s a small opaque art projector, the type Even's seen both at UiO and Chataeu Neuf alike, one which easily enable artists to blow up their project dimensions and trace or re-create on a large scale. He could go and spoil the surprise by simply removing whatever it is that Isak has placed in the slot, but he knows that he won’t. Isak is right: Even can’t resist a grand gesture. Perhaps opening the letter wasn’t meant to be, because he never did get around to doing it: life kept getting in the way. Perhaps there is a reason behind it.

In this universe, he decides, it was meant to be this way.

Wiping the remaining sleep out of his eyes, Even goes to the window. Before him is the wide expanse of plain brick wall of the block of apartments across the road. Except it’s no longer a blank space: now it’s the projected image of a slightly diluted copy of [Gustav Klimt’s ](https://78.media.tumblr.com/10e60da033107ce529f5de226c2469c3/tumblr_niwozga4yR1u9okxto1_500.png) [ _The Kiss_ . ](https://78.media.tumblr.com/10e60da033107ce529f5de226c2469c3/tumblr_niwozga4yR1u9okxto1_500.png)

He scarcely breathes, gazing upon it hungrily, feasting on every single detail in case he misses it. Isak’s tell-tale writing sits on top of the image, his usual neatness forgotten in favour of a hasty, abrupt scrawl. The message is written in English, and before he’s fully grasp it, he recognises where it is from. With his breath caught in his throat, Even reads it out loud:

YOU ARE THE LOVER OF MY IMPOSSIBLE SOUL

-

 

 

  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Your comments and bookmarks and kudos are so valued and appreciated. I love hearing feedback and I am so grateful for the read! Thank you for all the support when I published COLSS.
> 
> I am @odeto-psyche on tumblr. Do come and say hello and we can speak about all the things :) I have specific moodboard tags on tumblr for both [COLSS](http://odeto-psyche.tumblr.com/tagged/colss) and [LOMIS](http://odeto-psyche.tumblr.com/tagged/lomis)
> 
> ALT ER LOVE.


End file.
